!  H  nil! 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


V,.    V;'V* 

. 


* 


'#  - 


1 


•  • 

' 


POEMS. 


THE 


HARP  OF  ACCUSHNET 


POEMS 


BY 


MRS.     ELIZABETH     HAWES 


BOSTON: 

OTIS,     B  R  0  A  D  E  R  S    AND    COMPANY. 
M  DCCC  XXXVIII. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1838, 

BY  ELIZABETH  HAWES, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


EAST    BRIDGEWATER    PRESS. — GEO.    H.    BROWN. 


T 


-f  --f  o  £v  ••? 
-J — L/^O"^ 


INVOCATION. 


Wake  !    Harp   of  Accushnet !    I  call  thee — awake  ! 

Let  thy  notes  'neath  the  moonbeams  now  trembling 
ly  break, 

Let   them   wildly  re-echo   o'er   each  flowery   mead, 

That  adorns  the  green,  banks  by  thy  silver  waves 
spread. 

Wake,  Harp  of  Accushnet !  thy  sleep  has  been  sound, 
Now  let  thy  own  notes  flow  in  freedom  around, 
While  the  night-gems  are  falling   and   hang  on  each 

thorn,  i 

To  light   up   with   splendor  the  rosy  cheek'd  morn. 

Wake,  Harp  of  Accushnet !  'tis  time  thy  own  song 
Was  heard  where  these  waters  flow  gently  along, 
And  mingle  thy  notes  with  the  wood-warbler  wild, 
And  sing  as  those  once  did  when  tun'd  by  a  child. 

Wake,  Harp  of  Accushnet !  'tis  summer's  own  June. 
And  her  flowers  are  kiss'd  by  the  tears  from  the  moon, 
While  as  gently  they  fall  as  the  snow's  feath'ry 

flake- 
Wake  !    Harp   of  Accushnet !    I   call   thee — awake  ! 


CONTENTS. 


To  IMAGINATION         ...... 

THE  ROSES  ...... 

LlNES  WRITTEN  ON  VISITING  MoUMT  AUBURN         . 
THE  INDIAN  MOTHER  .... 

A  BRIDE  TO-MORROW          ..... 

LlNES  SUGGESTED  ON  SEEING  A  GERANIUM  THAT 
WAS  TRANSPLANTED  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  NA 
POLEON  ...... 

THE  EAGLE'S  HOME  .         .    •     .         .         . 

BURNS 

MORNING  .         .         .         .         .         .         . 

A  SKETCH  ....     !H:-'  *•  V  '' 

THE  SHRINE  .*       .         .     -:  v*      . 

MIDNIGHT  MUSINGS       ..... 

THERE'S  BEAUTY  IN  THE  HEAVENS     .         .     '*••'. 
SPRING'S  FIRST  MARTIN         .         .         .         . 

THERE  is  A  GOD         .  .        ^       .        i 

THE  POLANDER'S  FAREWELL          .         .         . 
STANZAS  .....'. 

STANZAS        .....         ..*       . 

DECEMBER        .....      .  *   /^ 

THE  INVITATION  .         .         .  . 

ECHO      ^.        .         .         .         .     »-*:*  'k.        * 

To  A  HUMMING  BIRD  .         .         .     *"  w  * 

THE  Music  I  LOVE         ,  ,  ;    ^  •     .         .         . 
MAYDAY          ;^.    •     .         .;  -w 

THE  GONDOLIER        .      ^  _;  •.;„*«»*•  ,^«-      .• 
THE  WATER  KELFY       .     *•*-''**'•'     .      *-.^» 
To  MY  GREYHOUND,  SWEEP        ...         .         . 

BOAT  SONG          *>'•»,!   -:^>V;     • 

THE  GIFT         .';".•'     ..... 

To  ELIZABETH 


Page 
1 

7 

9 

13 

22 


65 
66 
68 
70 
72 

^ 

76 

7/9 
82 

84 
86 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

Page 

THE  YOUNG  WIFE             89 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  WIDOW  .         .         .         .91 

THE  SUNSET  GUN              .                                   ..*•<  95 

THE  WISH .,,':?     .  98 

SONG t.  101 

THE  BEE  AND  THE  ROSE  TREE      ....  103 

THE  DEW  DROP 105 

LlNES  WRITTEN  ON  PASSING  AsSAWAMSET  PoND      .  107 

THE  LOST  PLEIAD            .         .         .         .         .  Ill 
THE  STREAMLET          .         .         .         .        ,.         .113 

THE  TROUBADOUK            .         .         -         .        ..  117 

THE  BOUQUET             .......  120 

STANZAS  TO  A  CHILD 121 

THE  IRISH  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT        ....  123 

A  DIRGE  is  SINGING          .....  126 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIP       ...      .         .         .129 

THE  SAILOR  BOY'S  DIRGE         ....  131 

EVENING  MUSINGS 133 

THE  HUNTED  DEER         .....  136 
LlNES  WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  AN  EAGLE  WINGING  ITS 
WAY  MAJESTICALLY  THROUGH  THE    CLOUDS,  AT 
NEEDHAM,  JULY  23,  1838        .         .         .         .133 

STANZAS 140 

THE  INDIAN  LOVER 142 

FRAGMENT               ,         .         .         .         .         .  145 

A  WINTER'S  NOON      .         .         .        ^ .  .„  :. ...     '-.  146 

SUMMER  SHOWER            .        .         .         /  *  •  VM  149 

A  PICTURE      >•  •  ri  f  *..        .         .         .      .      _     .  159 

A  WINTER'S  TALE        '•'.^.V     *«£    ;*.':     .  152 

EVENING          A  ,  "**«*•      .      -,,,-.-   ...         .  *.     .  156 

To  A  BUTTERFLY     .       "*>'.;*,        '*'  "  \  -.  161 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  SEA     ;'«/,,*.//    !^      .         .  165 

OUR  VILLAGE  FEAST  OF  SHELLS  170 


POEMS. 


TO    IMAGINATION. 


Away,   on   the   wings  of  the  morning, 
On   your  fairy-borne   chariot,  away, 

Like   the   flash  of  the   night  star  adorning 
Its   course  with  its  meteor  ray. 

Be  as  free  as   the  waves  of  the  ocean, 
That  dance   in  their   freedom   along, 

And  break,   in  their  angry  commotion, 

When  the  storm  spirit  sings  them  his  song. 

Be  as  free,  as  the  clouds  that  are  winging 

Their  way  through  yon  broad  arch  on  high; 

Be  as  free,  as  the  winds,  that  are  bringing 
Sweet  odours  from  far  Araby. 

I 


2  TO      IMAGINATION. 

Be  as   free,   as   the   eagle   that's   soaring 
High   o'er  yon  green  mountain's  brow, 

Or  the   cataract,   foaming   and   roaring 
And   throwing  its   waters  below. 

We'll  now  rest  awhile   in  the   green-wood, 

Where  the   panther  and  wolf  nightly  roam, 

To  seek   'neath  its  shade   for  the   life  blood 
Of  traveller  far  from   his   home ; 

Where   the   Indian,   his  presence   concealing, 
'Mid   deep-tangled  thicket  and  brier, 

Lurks   in   ambush,  but   soon   will  be   stealing 
To   avenge   the   deep   wrongs   of  his   sire. 

Then   away   to   the  cliff  of  some   mountain, 

Where  pines   wave   their   tall  branches   high, 

And  then  to   some  murm'ring  fountain, 

And  breathe   to  the   wild  winds   a   sigh ; 

A   sigh  for   the   wide  world  around  us, 
But  not  for  its  malice  or  scorn; 

For   spirits   celestial  have   found  us, 
And  never  will  leave  us  forlorn. 

Then  leave   for   a  flight  o'er  the   water, 
First  to   Rome's  fallen  grandeur  repair, 

Where  the  stamp   of  dread  ruin  and  slaughter 
Is  impress'd  on  her  brow,   once   so  fair. 


TO      IMAGINATION. 

And  there,   'mid  the  remnants  of  glory, 
Where  art   once   her  banner  unfurl'd, 

'Neath  sculptered  walls   mossy  and   hoary, 

Mourn  o'er  the  once   Queen  of  the  world. 

Then  leave  for  Alhambra's  fam'd  towers, 

Where  once  the  dark  Moor  rul'd  in   Spain, 

Where  ruin  amid  the  scene  lowers, 
Awhile,  for  a  short  while,  remain. 

Then  to  France,  with  her  sunny  clime  smiling, 

O'er  vine  cover'd  vallies  and  hills, 

And  list  to  the  soft  pipe  beguiling 

The  swain  of  his  cares   and  his  ills. 

Then  over  the  waters  to  Dover, 

To   Britain,   the  fam'd  mother  isle, 

And  rest  on  her  shores,  when  once  over, 
And  gaze  on  her  glories  awhile. 

To  Westminster  Abbey  first  hasting, 

On  your  light  airy  wings  hie  away  ; 

But  with  royalty  do  not  be  wasting 

Your  time,  for  you've  not  long  to  stay. 

First  seek  out  the  spot  consecrated 
To   feeling,  to  mind   doubly  dear  ; 

Drop  there,  and  don't  think  it  wasted, 
The  tribute  of  sympathy's  tear. 


4  TOIMAGINATI  ON. 

Bright  spirits  are   ever  there   winging 

On   pinions  unseen  to  the  eye ; 
I  can  fancy  I   now  hear   them  singing, 

In  strains  fraught  with  soft  melody. 

But  we  cannot  name   all  that  are  hallow'd, 
And  shrin'd  in  earth's  bosom  below  ; 

For  many  a  one  lies  there   pillow'd, 

And  time  will  not  wait  we  well  know. 

Haste   now  where  the   mosses  are   wreathing 
Their  festoons  round  Kenel worth's   towers  ; 

For  over  them  e'er  will  be  breathing 

The  charms   of  SCOTT'S  magical  powers. 

There  behold  the   gay   pageant  advancing, 
Led   on  by  the   fair   English   Queen, 

And  hear   the  quick  breath  and  the  prancing 
Of  gallant  steed  over  the  green ! 

Leave  England,  and  over  the  border 

Pass  shrines  that  are  hallow'd  and  dear ; 

They  cannot  be  all  nam'd  in  order, 

For  time's  rushing  wings  we  plain  hear. 

First  to   the   church-yard  of  Dumfries, 

Where   the   song  bard  of  Ayr  lowly   sleeps, 

Where   nature   e'er  mourns   in   the  wild  breeze, 
And  tells   to  the  cold  world  she   weeps. 


TO      IMAGINATION. 

Let  Dryburgh's  old  walls  then  admit  you, 
There  the  mighty  magician  lies  low  ; 

Linger  there,  if  old  time  will  permit  you, 
And  let  the  salt  tear  freely  flow. 

For   there   'tis  the   mighty  one   slumbers, 

Who  once  wav'd  his  wand  o'er  the  earth, 

And   Fame   with  her  trumpet  now  numbers 

Him,   whom  she   first  mark'd  from  his  birth. 

Then  farewell   to   the   queen  of  the  ocean, 

Her  heroes   and  worthies   of  old, 
Who   have   oft  caused  the  warmest  emotion 

To  rise,   when  their  glory  was  told. 

To  Erin,   green   Erin,  just  wander 

On  the   soft   downy  pinions   of  love  ; 

For  there   'twas  an   angel  did  render 
Her   soul  to   its  Maker  above  ; 

Yes,   Hemans,   thy  sorrows   are  over; 

A   bright  crown   of  glory  is  thine  ; 
The   purest   of  spirits   there  hover, 

And    Fame's  brightest  garland  entwine  ! 

We  must   leave,   for  the  fresh  gales  are  blowing ; 

It  is  time,   for  our  journey's   been  long  ; 
To   the   green   forest  land   we  are   going, 

To  list   to   our  own   woodland   song. 


D  TO      IMAGINATION. 

To  rest,  where   our  forests   are   waving 

Their  arms   toward  the  blue-vaulted  sky, 

Where   our  broad,   endless  rivers  are   laving     , 
Green  banks,   that   embosom'd  there  lie. 

For  your  wings,  they  are  weary,  they've  borne  you, 

So  rapidly  on  in   your  flight ; 
Hush ! — a  zephyr  has   pass'd  by  and  torn  you, 

And  wafted  you   far  from  my  sight. 


10 


THE    ROSES. 

The   Roses  !    the   Roses   in  beauty  bright  and  fair, 

The  richest  gems  in  Flora's  crown,  can  aught  with 
you  compare  ? 

Can  any  flower  in  field  or  bower  such  loveliness 
disclose, 

As  hovers  round  that  peerless  one,  old  England's 
royal  Rose  ? 

Can  any  flower  in  field  or  bower,  array'd  in  all  its 
pride, 

Match  with  the  beauties  of  the  Rose,  when  bloom 
ing  by  its  side  1 

The   Roses  !   the   Roses  !   all   in  their  glory  are ; 

Behold  them  in  their  beauty,  the  fairest  of  the  fair  ; 

The  dews  of  Heaven  drank  of  their  sweets,  as  from 
the  stars  they  fell ; 

The  winds  of  Heaven,  they  kiss'd  them  too,  and  of 
it  too  they  tell. 

And  ev'ry  bird,  that  tunes  his  throat,  he  bears  the 
tale  along, 

That  the  soft  winds  have  kiss'd  the  Rose,  the  bur 
den  of  his  song. 

The  Roses  !  the  Roses  !  they  are  the  flowers  for  me ; 
I  prize  them,  yes,  I  prize  them  far  before  all  flowers 
I   see. 


8  THEROSES. 

Others  may  crown  the  lily  fair,  when  in  her  pride 
she's  seen ; 

To  me  the  Rose  must  ever  stand  the  garden's  right 
ful  queen. 

Who  cannot  help  but  love  them,  those  beauties  lent 
from  Heaven  ? 

Who  cannot  help  love  them,  so  little  while  they're 
given  ? 

Perhaps  that  makes  us  prize  them  so,  they  die 
away  so  soon, 

That  little  fragrant  flowery  band,  the  pride  of  Sum 
mer's  June. 

Many  there  are  most  lovely  ones  and  true*  I  love 
them  well ; 

The  pink,  the  modest  violet,  and  Scotland's  own 
blue-bell ; 

The  daisy,  and  the  buttercup,  that  bloom  beside  the 
grot; 

The  tulip,  and  the  hyacinth,  and  love's  forget-me- 
not  ; 

And  many  more;  they  all  are  dear,  that  little  fra 
grant  band 

That  bud  and  bloom,  and  spread  their  sweets,  di 
rected  by  that  hand, 

That  makes  the  wilds  in  beauty  blow,  and  decks 
the  garden  bower  ; 

But  I  must  bow  me  to  the  Rose,  as  queen  of  ev'ry 
flower. 


LINES    WRITTEN    ON    VISITING 
MOUNT    AUBURN. 


The   winds   that   swept  the   yellow  heath 

They  whisper'd  of  the   dying  year ; 
Then  wildly  sung  its   coming  death, 

In  notes  both  sweet  and   sad  to  hear. 
October  dropt  the  pearly  tear, 

As   lightly  o'er   the   hills   she  flew, 
And,   tho'  her  .breath  had  dared  to   sear, 

She  deck'd  the  groves  in  richest  hue. 

No   bird  among   the   rustling  trees 

Was   sweetly  heard   to   tune   itis   song, 
Soft  calling   on   the   passing  breeze 

To   waft  its   notes   of  love   along. 
Fair  Flora  far  her   wreath  had  flung, 

And   Ceres'  tears   they   fell   in  vain, 
For   chilling  balsts   had  early  wrung 

Her   treasures   from   the   spreading  plain. 


10  MOUNT      AUBURN. 

Rich   were  the  charms   of  Autumn  spread 

Around  each   hillock,   bank   and   grove, 
Encircling  many   an  earthly  bed, 

Where   oft   the   cypress  wreath  is   wove, 
Where   weeping  friends   full   often  rove 

To  kneel  beside   some  hallow'd  grave, 
And  consecrate  the   spot  to  love, 

Where   Auburn's  groves   in  beauty  wave. 


Slowly  I  lingered  through   those   aisles, 

Those  labyrinths   that  mazy  wind 
Through   that  sweet   spot,  where   nature  smiles, 

And  in   her  brightest  charms   we   find, 
For   there   they  all  are   fair,   combin'd, 

And  every   rolling  season   brings 
Its  beauties   forth,   and   o'er  the   mind 

The  magic  of  its   influence   flings. 


Where   science,  virtue,  honor  sleep 

I   linger'd  long,   and  as   I  stood 
Beside   their   graves,   I   could   not   weep 

Nor  sigh  amid  the  hallowed   crowd, 
For   mercy   (purchas'd  by   the  blood 

Of  Him   who   wore   upon  his  head 
The   crown   of  thorns)   pour'd  forth  her   flood 

Of  glory  o'er  the   happy   dead. 


MOUNT      AUBURN.  11 

And,  as   the   leaves   around   me   fell, 

And   the   winds   whisper'd   soft  and  low, 
They   seem'd  the   mournful  tale   to   tell 

That  earthly  joys  were   twin'd   with  woe. 
For   late  in  beauty   flowers   did  grow, 

Beneath   the   fading  forest  tree ; 
In  beauty  they  no  longer  blow, 

Cold   earth,  they've   found   a  home   on  thee. 


Yes,   earth,  they   seek   a  resting  place 

On  thy   cold  breast,   amid   these  groves, 
Where   death  in   terror   none   can  trace, 

But   wears   the   aspect  fancy   loves ; 
And  here   through   Auburn's  shades   she   roves, 

And   freely   spreads   her   airy   wings, 
Pointing  towards   Heaven,  and,   as   she  moves, 

Of  joys   immortal   sweetly   sings. 


Oh   sacred   shades,  could  I  but   rest 

Beneath   you,   when   in   death  I   lie, 
Be  welcom'd   there   to   earth's   cold  breast, 

When   I   have   breath'd   life's   latest  sigh, 
When   earthly  shadows   from  me  fly, 

And  weary  of  this   mortal  coil, 
To   brighter   worlds  with  joy   I  hie, 

And   leave   a   world   of  woe   and  toil. 


12  MOUNT      AUBURN. 

Yes,   could  I  hope,  when  I   am  dead, 

That  some   friend,  who  my  heart  hath  known, 
Would  place  the   cross  above  my   head, 

The   emblem   of  the  faith   I   own, 
In  Auburn's   shades,  and  make   the   stone 

A  simple  one,   where  I   may   lie, 
I'd   say,  Oh   death !   thy   sting  hath   flown  ; 

The  grave  hath  lost  its   victory ; 

For   death   would  have  no   sting  for  me, 

Its  arrow  it  would  scarcely  wound, 
If  I  could  hope  that  I  should  be 

Circled  by  Auburn's  beauties  round. 
I'll  hope  that  friend  will  yet  be  found 

To  lay  me,  when  life's  taper  fades, 
Sweet  Auburn,  in  thy  hallow'd  ground, 

Beneath   thy  consecrated  shades. 


13 


THE    INDIAN    MOTHER. 


The  noon  sun  gilds   the   mountain  stream, 

And  near  its  bushy   sides 
The   Indian  Mother's   dark   eyes   gleam, 

As  from  the   foe   she   hides; 
For,   at  early  morn  by  the  white  man's  hand, 
Her  warrior  was   sent  to   the   spirit  land. 

On   a  bank  of  the   softest  moss  is   seen 
The  brow   of  her   sleeping  child, 

And  she   gathers   the   twigs  of  the  osiers  green, 
That  grow  in   the   woody  wild : 

And   she   forms   of  the   osiers   around  her  spread 

A  bower  to   shelter  her  infant's  head. 

She  looks   on  her  babe,  as  he   sleeping  lies, 

So  innocent  and  fair  ; 
Not  one   tear-drop  gems  her  dark  bright  eyes ; 

Not  one   sigh  is  uttered  there; 
For   the  hopes   of  a  mother  are  gath'ring  fast ; 
On  her  sleeping  babe   they  are   fearless  cast. 
2 


14  THE      INDIAN      MOTHER. 

"  I'll  make  him  a  bower  of  the   leafy  bush, 

And  shelter  him   from  the   sun," 
She  sings,  "  and   hush,   my  baby,   hush, 

For   thy  mother  has  just   begun 
To   weave   the   twigs   of  the   willow  tree, 
And  form   a   sheltering  bower   for  thee." 

"  And  thou'rt  all   my   little   one, 

Dear   Child   of  a   warrior  bold  ; 
Thou'rt   all   that's   left,   my   darling  son, 

Of  a  race   far   fam'd   of  old  ; 
The   swiftest   in   chase,  the   boldest   in   war, 
The   dread   of  the   pale   face   near   and  far." 

"  And,   when   thou'rt   nam'd   with   the   warrior  band, 

»'"'  -J& 

She   will   tell  how   the   pale   face  came 
And   drove   thy   fathers   afar   from   their  land, 

And   wreath'd   their   dwellings   in   flame, 
And  made   thy  mother   seek   out   in   the    wood 
A   home   with   all  that   remains   of  her   blood." 

"  Now  hush,   my   babe,   and   I   will   lay 

Thee   in   thy   little   green  bower, 
The    softest  breezes   around   thee   shall   play. 

And  fan   thee,   my  little   wild   flower. 
And  thy  mother  waits,  for  the  deed  must  be  done 
That  will  prove   that   thou'rt   thy   father's    son." 


THE      INDIAN      MOTHER.  15 

"  Sleep   on,   my  baby,  sweetly   sleep, 

Sleep   sweet   in   the   leafy   shade ; 
Wake   not   to   see   thy   mother  weep, 

But  rest   in   the   bower  she's   made. 
She   hides   you  now   from   the    white  man  foe, 
Whose   arm   this   morn  laid  thy   father  low. " 

"  Thy   mother  rejoices,   for  plain   she  can  see 

A   spirit   in  thy   young   eye, 
That   tells,   that  a  warrior  thou'rt  born  to  be, — 

That  thou  from  the  foe   ne'er  will  fly ; 
And  the   time   will  yet  come   when   the  death  of 

thy   sire 
And  wrongs   of  thy  mother '11  be  written  in  fire." 

The   Indian   mother   glanc'd  with  pride 

At  her   little  sleeping   son ; 
As   he   slept  in   his   innocence   close   to  her  side, 

She   kiss'd   her   dark   eye'd   one. 
And  who  but   a  mother  can   tell   her  joy, 
As  she   clasp'd,  when  he   woke,   her   infant  boy  ? 

The   boy   grew   apace,   and   the   mountain  deer 
Oft   heard  the   twang   of  his  bow ; 

The   bear   and   the   panther   fled   in   fear 

From   the  haunts   of  their   youthful   foe; 

For   oft  by  him   they  were  laid   in   death, 

And  their  red   blood  stain'd  the  mossy  heath. 


16  THE      INDIAN      MOTHER. 

Panther  Eye  the  young  boy  was   nam'd, 

And  honor  upon   him  bestow'd 
For  his   first   exploit; — and   far  he   was    fam'd 

For  his   courage  ;    and  it  was   allow'd, 
From  the  time  when  he   first  his   skill   did  try, 
And  aim'd  his   shaft  at  the   panther's   eye. 

And,   then  to   lead  the   warrior  band, 

They  call   on  the  hunter  bold, 
There's  none,  that  dwells   in  the   green-wood   land 

Of  the  warriors,  young  or  old, 
Can   sing  with  him  the   songs  of  war, 
Or   send  the   poison'd   arrow  so   far. 

The  war  song  and   dance   are   the   chief  delight 
Of  this   son  of  the   green-wood  kings, 

And  he  sung  of  his   fathers,   whose  sun  set  bright, 
Where    the   mountain   echo  rings, 

Ere   the  winds   had   sent  from  a   far-off  shore 

A   race   to  tell   them   their  reign  was   o'er. 

And   well   might   his   mother  exult   with   pride 

O'er  her   son,   for  Appollo   of  old, 
Fam'd   for  his   beauty  and   grace   far    and    wide, 

And   dwelt  with  immortals,   I'm  told, 
Was   not   in  his   glory  more   graceful   to   view, 
Than  this  young  chief  was  with  arrow  aim'd  true. 


THE      INDIAN      MOTHER.  17 

And   he   loved   a  maid,  call'd  the   motherless  fawn, 
That   dwelt   in  his   mother's  home, 

And   oft  he   would  rise   at  the   early   dawn, 
And  over   the   mountain   roam, 

To  entice   the   wood  dove   into   his   snare, 

A  gift  for  the   maid  with   the  raven  hair. 

The  boldest,  the   fleetest,   the   fairest    in  form 

This   son   of  the   forest  stood, 
The  fire  of  his   fathers  his  breast   did  warm, 

When  he  trod  the  resounding  wood  ; 
But  he  bore  the  heart  of  an  Indian  true, 
And  a  flame  was  there  smothered  to  burst  anew. 

His   arrow  is   aim'd,  just  ready  to   fly, 

As   we   see   the   young  chieftain   stand ; 

His   matchless   form   and   his  daring   eye 
Betray  him   a   prince  of  the   land  ; 

And  he   came   of  a  race  that  was   fam'd  far   and 
near, 

But  which  has   been  nameless   for  many  a  year. 

And  close  by  his   side   stands    his   nut-brown  love, 

The  youthful   Dian   of  the   wild  ; 
Dignity,   modesty,   beauty   are   wove 

Together  and  thrown  round  this  child  ; 
This   child  of  the   wilderness,  queen   of   the  heart, 
Of  this  forest  Apollo,   with   oak-bow  and  dart. 
2* 


18  THE      INDIAN      MOTHER. 

As   she   stands   by  the   side   of  her  warrior  bold, 
He   gives  her  his  bow   well   strung, 

Her   graceful   hand   the   arrow   doth  hold, 
And    'tis   quickly  aim'd   among 

The   tangled   thicket;  if  then   had   you   seen 

This   maid  of  the  forest,  you'd  hail'd  her  as   queen. 

Well  aim'd   is  the   arrow,   and  lowly  hath   fell, 

By  the   maiden's   hand,   the   deer  ; 
An   antler'd  brow,   her   lover  can   tell, 

Is   slain  by   the   maiden   here. 

He   looks   on  his  love,   as   she   stands  by  his  side, 
And   he   says,   "  she  is  born   for   a   warrior's  bride." 

And,   as   the  blood   flows   o'er   the   ground, 

And   stains   the    mossy  green, 
There   is   heard   in   the  thicket  a  rustling   sound, 

Where   the   wild  hedge   roses  are  seen. 
And   the   Indian   mother  beside   them    stands ; 
She   tears  her   hair   and   she   wrings   her   hands ! 

She   says,   "  the   time   it  has   come,  and   I'll   say, 
For  why  was  the   Panther   Eye   born  ? 

He   has   heard   who   caus'd  his   father   to   lay 
In    death,   one   early  morn. 

Revenge   his   death  my   son,  my   son  ; 

The  time  it  has  come,  and  the  deed  must  be  done." 


THE      INDIAN      MOTHER.  19 

"My  son   knows   where   the   stream   divides, — 

Where    two   little   riv'lets   flow, — 
Where   an   old  moss   oak,  in  its  hoary  pride, 

Waves   its   branches   to   and  fro  ; 
Where    the   defied  rock  has   for   ages   stood ; 
There  the   white  man   tasted  thy   father's   blood." 

"  Revenge,  my   son  !  revenge  his   death  ; — 

Go  to  his  dwelling  to-night  ; 
It   stands   in   the   valley  ;  'tis  yonder  beneath 

Those   pines,  with   its   walls   so   white. 
I  know,   my  son,   thy  blood   is   on   fire  ; 
It  boils   to  revenge     the   death   of  thy   sire." 

"  As  soon  as  the  moon  has  left  the  sky, 
I'll  light  the  torch  with  my  hand ; 

But  thou,  my  son,  must  the  torch  apply, 
While  bright  burns  the  fiery  brand. 

As   the   red   flames   toward   the   night   stars   ascend, 

The  fate  of  my  son  and  his  lov'd  one  shall  blend." 

The   Panther  Eye  speaks  ;    he   says  that,  "  to-night 
Shall  my   mother's   wrongs   be   redress'd, 

And   I'll   hail,   as  my  wife,  as  the  flames  curl 

bright, 
The   maid   that   my  mother   has  bless'd. 

And  ere   the   sun  again  mounts   the    skies, 

Ruin  shall  reign,   where   the   murderer  lies. " 


20  THE      INDIAN      MOTHER. 

And  midnight  saw   on  the  plains  below 

The   red   flames   glance  around, 
While  shrieks  through   the   air  are   heard   to   flow, 

And  groans   from   the   dying  resound ; 
And  the   Indian   mother  she   dances  with  joy, 
While  beholding  the   deeds   of  her  chieftain  boy. 

By  the  light  of  the  flames,  as  they  curl  in  the  air, 
The  Panther   Eye   claims,   as   his   bride, 

The  flower   of  the   forest,    'mong  many  most  fair, 
That   often  has   rov'd  by  his   side. 

And  their  priest  was  the  same,  as  the  sages  relate, 

Bless'd  our  parents  in  Eden,  and  blended  their  fate. 

The   groans   of  the   dying  at   length   die   away, 
The   errand   of  vengeance   is   done, 

And  naught  but   the   smoking   ruins   lay 
Next  morn   'neath   the   cloudless   sun. 

It  arose   in   glory  and  brightly   spread 

Its  beams   o'er  the   murder'd  and  mangled  dead. 

The   father,  the  mother,   the  daughter   that  night 
All   perish'd   beneath   the   bright  knife  ; 

The   Indian   mother  looks   on   with   delight; — 
'Tis   the   happiest   hour   of  her    life. 

(The   trav'ller   now  marks   the  gpot,   where  stood 

The   mansion   fair  by   the   green   wild   wood.) 


THE      INDIAN      MOTHER.  21 

The   Indian   mother   has   tasted   the  cup 
Of  revenge,   and  has  call'd  it  sweet  ; 

She   has   drank  the   whole    of  its   contents   up, 
And   her  joy   is   now  complete  ; 

For   the   race  of  the   man,   her  direst   foe, 

Is   extinct  ;  in   no   vein   doth  his   blood  flow. 


22 


A    BRIDE    TO-MORROW 


The   evening  sun  is   setting, 
The  twilight  soon  will   come, 

The   whippoor-will  begins  his   song, 
Inviting  me  from   home. 

I'll  hie  me   to   the   meadows, 

Where  wild  flowers   sweetly  bloom, 

And  gather  there   a  summer  wreath, 
To   deck  my  bridal  room. 

To-morrow  is  my  wedding  day  ;— 

To-morrow   I'm  a  bride ; 
And  Robin,   chosen  of  my  heart, 

Calls   me  his  joy  and  pride. 

He   calls  me  his  own   Anna ; 

To   day  he  bought   the   ring  ; 
To  morrow's  eve   to  her  own  home 

He   will  his  Anna  bring. 

You  see   yon   little   cottage, 
With   sweetbrier   twin'd  around, 

'Tis   there   that  my   dear   Robin 
A  home  for  me  has  found, 


A      BRIDE      TO-MORROW.  23 

He's   planted  there   the   rose   tree, 

And   twining   eglantine, 
And   many   fragrant   flowering  bush, 

And   he   has   call'd   them   mine. 

And   many  a  tree   our   garden  wall 

Protects   from   the  north   winds, 
Whose   boughs  will  bend,  when   Autumn   comes, 

With   fruits   of  many  kinds. 

And   a   shelter   for   the   cooing  dove 

My   Robin  dear   has   made, 
And   a   flow'ring   bank   for   our   own   bees 

Upon   the   sunny   glade. 

And,   when    Spring  comes,   beside  the   brook 

Our  little   sportive   lambs 
Will   frisk   so   gay,   the   livelong  day, 

Beside   their   fleecy   dams. 

How   happy,   happy   I   shall  be, 

When   I   am   Robin's  bride  ! — 
But  must   I   leave   my  father's  home, 

And   my   dear  mother's   side  ? 

And  leave   my   little   sister, 

That  runs  beside   me   here, 
So  charming,   with   her   locks  of  gold 

And  bright   blue   eyes   so   clear ! 


24  A      BRIDE      TO-MORROW. 

I   cannot   help  but   weeping, 

I   love  them  all   so   well ; 
How  happy   I   have   ever   been ! 

'Tis   vain, — I   cannot   tell. 

How   I   shall   miss,   when   evening  comes, 
My   father's   evening  prayer ! 

His   hymn   of  love,   his   nightly  kiss, 
His   ever  watchful   care ! 

Yes !    home   of  all   my   infant  joys, 

Dear   cottage   by   the  grove, 
The   witness   of  my  happy   days, 

You'll   ever   have   my   love. 

But  sixteen   summer   suns   have   pass'd  ; 

But  sixteen   times   the   sun 
Has   smiled  upon  the   summer   flowers, 

Since   my   young   life   begun. 

And   now,   to-morrow's   eve   I  go 

Away,   a   bride   to   be, 
And  leave   the   home,   I  love  so   well, 

Beneath   the   old   oak  tree. 

I   will   not  let   my  father's   eye 

See   tears   upon   my   cheek, 
Nor  shall   my  mother  see   them  fall; 

For  of  it  she  would   speak. 


A      BRIDE      TO-MORROW.  25 

And  yonder  comes  my  Robin  ! 

I'll   wipe   away   the   tear; 
I   will   not  let  him   see   me  weep, 

He  is   to   me   so   dear. 


26 


LINES 

SUGGESTED   ON   SEEING   A   GERANIUM, 

THAT   WAS   TRANSPLANTED   FROM 

THE   GRAVE   OF   NAPOLEON. 

Where   the  sea-bird's   scream   echoes   over   the  isle, 
That  encircles   the   conqueror's   tomb, 

Where   a  son   of  France   is   ne'er   seen   to   smile, 
You   first  burst  into  beauty's   bloom. 

Where   the   willows  weep,   as  their  branches   wave, 

To   the  foaming   ocean's  roar, 
And  the  wild  winds   sigh  o'er  the  conqueror's  grave 

On    St.    Helena's   far   fam'd  shore. 

It   was  there   that  your   green  leaves  first  open'd  to 
view, 

Fann'd   to   life   by  the  breeze   passing   by ; 
It  was  there   in   your   seedling  state   that  you  grew, 

Where   the   warrior's   ashes   lie. 

You    have     drank     the    dew    with     the    same    fair 
flowers 

On   that  far-fam'd   spot  that  bloom, 
And  been   wet  by   the   same   soft   summer  showers, 

That  fell   on   the   conqueror's   tomb. 


LINES.  27 

You've  been  brought  from   that  spot  by  the  careful 
hand 

Of  one   who   remembers   the  brave, 
Who   has   found   you   a   home   on   his  native   land, 

Where   New-England's   forests   wave. 

And   here   may   your   green   leaves   daily  unfold, 

As   they   did   on   their   native   shore, 
And   call   oft   to   mem'ry   the  brave  and  the   bold, 

Whom   the   clarion   rouses   no   more. 

Who   smil'd   when   the   war   trump   was   heard   long 
and  loud, 

And  by   victory   often   was   crown'd, 
Who  made  armies  tremble  and  flee,  while  the  cloud 

Black   with   battle-smoke,   thunder'd  around  ! 

But  the  full  tide  of  victory  at  length  pass'd  him  by, 
Reversed  were  the  waves  that  then  roll'd, 

Crush'd  on  the  cold  ground  his  fam'd  laurels  now  lie ; 
With  the  vanquish'd  his  name  we  behold  ! 

Where  the  waves  beat  high,  and  the  sea-bird's  song 
Is  heard  with  the  rush  of  the  winds, 

As  they  waft  his  death  dirge  by  the  waters  along, 
And  the  brave  of  his  fate  oft  reminds. 

His  remains  rest  in  peace,  while  the  glistening  tear 
Down  the  soldier's  cheeks  oft  seen  to  flow, 

As  a   sigh   from  the  breast  of  some  follower   dear 
Oft  bursts   for   the   sleeper  below ! 
3t 


28 


THE    EAGLE'S    HOME. 


There   is  a  rock,   a  beetling  rock, 

Where  an  eagle  builds  its  nest; 
It  stands  by  the   sea,  and  it  bears  the  shock 

Of  ocean's  heaving  breast ; 
And   the   eagle's   scream  is   oft  heard   to  mock 

The  waves,  when  by  winds  carest. 

And  many   an   eaglet's   took  its   flight 

From  that  rock,   o'er   the   world   to  rove ; 

The  winds  of  heaven  them  never  fright, 
Nor  the   thunder-bolts  of  Jove, 

Tho'  they're   sent  from  clouds   that    enshroud,    like 

night, 
The   thunderer's   throne   above. 

They  often  sing,   and  they're  heard   afar 

By   the   lion  in  his   lair ; 
They  sing   of  peace,   and   they  sing   of  war, 

On   stormy   days   and   fair. 
They're  waxing   strong,   and   'tis  freedom's  star 

That  guides   their  course   thro'  air. 


29 


BURNS. 

Eleven  summers  scarce  had  spread 

Their  flowers   to   deck  my  path  below, 

Ere   I   by   Scotia's  bard  was  led 

At  Poesy's  bright  shrine   to  bow. 

'Twas   Burns  that  bade  me  first  prepare 
The  meteor  wreath  of  song  to  weave, 

And  true,   'twas  wove   with  ev'ry  care 

That  such  a  youthful  wreath  could  have. 

I   pull'd  from  ev'ry  wild  a  flow'r 

Of  sweetest  scent  and  richest  hue, 

That  e'er  was  ope'd  by  summer  shower, 
Or  e'er  was  bath'd  in  fancy's  dew. 

I   borrow'd   of  the   songster's  note 

A  melody  sent  from  above, 
And,   as   the   warbler   tun'd  his   throat, 

I  finish'd  the  first  wreath  I  wove. 

'Twas  measur'd  by  the  rule   and  line, 
And  ne'er  again  shall  I  bestow 

Such   care  upon  a  wreath  of  mine; 

And  then  I  bound  it  round  my  brow. 


30  BURNS. 

I've  worn  it  long,  unseen,   unknown ; 

Yes,  true,  that  meteor   wreath   I've   wore 
Long,  long ;   unto   the   muse's   throne 

I've  bow'd,  and  shall,   till   I'm  no  more. 

It  was  the  wild  and  warbling  song 

Of  Burns,  that  first  inspired  my  lay, 

And  bade  me  try  the  paths  among 
The  flow'ry  wilds  of  Poesy. 

With  rapture   oft  my   soul   is   fraught, 

As   o'er   the   poet's   lays   I   pore ; 
Again,   lost   pleasures   home   are   brought, 

With   all   the   charms  they   had  before. 

For,  in  those  days,  how  oft  I've  sung 

The  "  Banks  and  Braes  of  Bonny  Doon  /" 

How  oft  Accushnet's  banks  have  rung 
With  echoes  to  that  charming  tune  ! 

And   "  Scots   wha  ha'e   with   Wallace   bled," 
What   patriot  bosom  but  must  warm 

With  ardor  for   the   chief,   who   led 

The   valiant  through  the   battle   storm  ? 

And  sweetest  of  auld  Scotia's  lays, 

The   days  of  "  Auld  Lang    Syne"  how  dear ! 
What  one  withholds   the  voice   of  praise, 

Whene'er  its   sweetness   greets   the   ear  ? 


BURNS.  31 

Oh,   never   shall   I   e'er   forget, 

The   hour,   when   first  I   heard   that  strain ; 
It   lingers  on   my   mem'ry  yet, 

And   former  joys   have   come   again ! 

And   thou,   fair   star,   whose   less'ning  ray 
Hangs  trembling  in   its   native   sphere, 

And   seems   to   light   the   lonely   way 

Of  many   an   earthly   wanderer   here, 

How  many   years   since   first  we   met ! 

And  still  it  wears   the  same   sweet  smiles, 
As   when   first   on   this   soul   it   set, 

To   point   out  nature's   mazy   aisles. 

I've   fancied   oft   I've   heard   the   song, 
The   same   the   tuneful   mavis   sung, 

Borne   by   the   gentle   breeze   along, 

As   echo   through   the   woodlands  rung. 

While   on  the   fragrant   dewy  green, 

The  pearl-drops   glit'ring  bright  the   while, 

Light   zephyr   brush'd,   on  wings   unseen, 
The   flow'iy  "  Braes  of  Ballochmyle." 

Spirit  of  Scotland's   sweetest  bard  ! 

How  firmly   round  my   soul  you   twine  ! 
If  love   of  mortal  can  reward, 

You   have  it  from   this  heart  of  mine. 


32  BURNS. 

I   will  not  now  attempt  to  tell 

Each  beauty  of  your  wood-notes  wild ; 
But  this   I   know,  I   love   them   well, 

Yes,   full  as   well  as  when  a  child. 

As  well  as  when  you  first  inspir'd 

My  youthful  mind  with  love  of  song, 

And,  by  your  bright  example  fir'd, 
I  roved  the  flowery  maze  among. 

As   well,  as   when   I   first   entwin'd 

The  muse's  wreath,  of  wild  flowers  made, 
And   on   my   youthful  brow   did  bind 

That  wreath,  and  nurs'd   it  in  the  shade. 

'Twas   nature   bade   your   strains   to   flow ; 

Your  native   genius   all   must   own ; 
And   let,   o'er   all  your   frailties   now, 

The   veil   of  charity  be   thrown*   ' 

She   claim'd  you,   as  her  darling  child ; 

To   all  her  charms  you   e'er  was  true. 
'Twas   in   her   sweet  haunts   so   wild, 

The   muses  found   a  home  for  you. 

Yes,  Bard  of  Ayr !  to  you  I  owe 

My  first  flower  from  those  haunts  divine ; 

And  can  I  but  an  offering  throw, 
Tho'  humble  be  the  gift  of  mine. 


33 


MORNING 


Aurora's  blushes  now   are  rosy  red, 

The  mist   disperses   as   she  joyful  comes, 

The   dewy   ground  with   opening   flow'rs  is  spread, 
The   wild-wood  warblers  leave  their  leafy  homes, 

And   see !    bright   rising  from  his   ocean   bed, 
The  day-god  hasting,   while   the   dancing  hours 

Move  merry   onward,   by  his   glory  led, 

Around   their  daily  pathway,  strewn  with  flowers, 
While   music   swells  aloud  in  grove  and  woodland 
bowers  ! 

Yes !    every   songster  tunes   his  note   to  love, 

While  dew-drops  sparkle  on   each   flow'ring  thorn, 
And   o'er   the   hills   the   fleecy  flocks   now  rove, 

And   seem  to   welcome   forth   the   rosy   morn. 
Nature   rejoices,   hill,   and   dale   and   grove, 

With   many   an   echo,  fair   Aurora  greet, 
While   to   the   field   the   lowing  herd   is   drove, 

There,   'mong  fresh  verdure  and  the  wild-flowers 
sweet, 

They  spend  the  livelong  day  and  nought  but  plea 
sure   meet. 


34  MORNING. 

I'll   out  upon   the   hills,   for  who   would   stay 
At    home,    when     nature's    voice    says    loudly, 
"come!" 

And,   as   the   merry  hours   dance    on   their  way, 
O'er  hill  and   dale   alike   I'll   freely   roam, 

And   leave   awhile   my  wood-embower'd  home, 
To   taste   the   fragrant   air,  while   o'er  my   head 

Clouds,   piled   on   clouds,  white  as  the  ocean's  foam, 
Move   on   majestic,   with   their  wings  outspread 
Wide   o'er   our   lower   world,   by   their   great  Ma 
ker   led. 

The   little   mill  by  yonder   riv'let's  side 

In  murmurs   hoarse  begins   its   daily   round ; 

While   o'er   the   surface  of  the   silver   tide 

A    snow-white    duck    with    her    young    brood    is 
found, 

And,   tho'   so  early,   where   the   rills   divide, 
Are   voices   heard   in   happy  childhood's   glee. 

They've   caught  the   lily   in   its   snowy   pride, 
And   it   is   bound   on  brows  from  sorrow   free, 
For  innocence  is  theirs,  and  happy  they  must  be. 

From   yonder   cottage  on   the   mountain's   brow 
The   smoke   arises,   curling   through  the   air, 

In   wreath   fantastic, — while   the   plains   below 

Resound   with   songs   from   hearts,  quite  free  from 
care. 


MORNING.  35 

Light   as   the   morning  lark   they  onward   go, 
Gay   as   the   deer   that  bounds   along  the   plains; 

And,  as   their  voices  through   the   clear  air  flow, 
They're  joined   by  many  a  bird  of  tuneful  strain  ; 
And   hill   and   dale   awake   with  melody   again ! 

Who,   that   on   downy  bed  of  ease   now  lies, 
Dreaming   this   glorious   morn   in   sleep   away, 

Would  not,  enraptured,   from  his   couch   arise, 
And  join   his  song  with  nature's  carols  gay  ? 

O,  could   the   dream-goddess,   as    she  onward   flies, 
But   paint   this   scene   in   all   its  glory   drest, 

And  bring  before   his   clos'd  and  slumbering   eyes 
Closed  by   late  hours  and   giddy   cares  opprest, 
Could  she   but   paint   this  morn  deck'd  out  in 
nature's  best! 

Rise,   sleeper,   rise!   before   the   honey'd   dew 
Has   left  the   earth.     Arise   and   taste  the   morn. 

The   bright  eye'd  sun  is   now  seen  peeping  through 
The   fissure  of  yon  cliff,   so  broke   and   torn 

By  the  great   power   unseen,  from   whence  just  flew 
Columbia's   cherish 'd  bird.    Nothing  forlorn 

Can   here   be   found. —  Arise!    come,   sleeper  now, 
And  taste   sweet  nature's   nectar,   zephyr-borne, 
Before   from   earth   away  night's  glittering  gems 
are   torn. 


36  MORNING. 

Upon  a  broken  bank,  with   eye  intent 
Upon  his   little   bark,   a  boy   is   seen ; 

His  eye  is   fix'd ;   the  little   sail   is   bent 

To   where   the  riv'let  winds   its  way  between 

Two  tow'ring  elms, — a  harbor  there  'twill  make ; 
And  'neath  the   boughs,  that   wave  so  bright  and 
green, 

The  happy  owner   of  the   ship  will   take 

His  blithsome  way,  and  oft  he  there  hath  been 
The  profits   of  his  voyage  with  joyful  step  to 
glean. 

Close  by  his  side  his   dog,  with  wishful  eye, 
Watches  the  little   bark,   but   dares  not  go, 

His   master  eyes  him  with   a  look   so  sly; 
But  he's  inclin'd  into   the   waves  below 

To  plunge,  if  he   but  dare   to. — Should  he   try 
The  wish'd-for  leap,  the  ship  would  sail  no  more. 

Let  her   alone,   yes,   let  her  onward  fly; 
A   few   short  moments   she   will   reach  the  shore  : 
Ev'n  now  she's  reach'd  the  bank ;    her  little 
voyage  is  o'er. 

The  hours  are  hasting  on  their  merry  round; 

The   day-god's   chariot  fast  ascends   the   sky; 
The   gems   of  night  can  now  be  scarcely   found ; 

The  morning's   freshness   is   in  haste   to  hie. 


MORNING.  37 

Flowers  quite  unnumber'd  strew  the  verdant  ground, 
And   many  more   adorn  the   leafy   shade, 

While   childhood's   step   is   lightly   heard  to   bound 
On  the   hill   side,   and   now   upon   the   glade. 
"Pis   the   same  group  we  met   that  with  the   lilies 
play'd. 

In  merry  mood  their  steps   they   onward  bend 

To   where  yon  oak  spreads  out  its  giant   arms ; 
Beneath  its   shelter  they   awhile   intend 

To   spend  a  few  light  moments  in   the   charms 
Of  some   sweet  rustic  sport, —  and  then   to   wend 
Their  way  to   school. — But,  hark !    the  bell   doth 

sound ! 

They  must   no  longer  stay. — Come,  haste   and  lend 
Them   fairy  speed. —  Now   'neath  the   roof  they're 

found, 

And  their  bright  laughing  eyes   beam  joy  on  all 
around. 

Oh,  happy  childhood,  happy  are  your  hours! 

Could  but  your  noon  be  happy,  as  your  morn; 
Could    you  but  find    your   way    e'er    strewn    with 
flowers 

That  ever  flourish  without  e'er  a  thorn; 
But,  oh!  there  must  be  clouds  and  gloomy  showers. 

4 


38  MORNING. 

But,  ha !   ne'er  mind  it ;  they  are  beauteous  now ; 
Cull  them,  and  cherish  them,  and,  when  night  lowers, 
May  you  be  ready   earth  joys  far  to  throw, 
And  at  your  maker's  throne  with  thankful  hearts 
to  bow. 


39 


A    SKETCH. 


The  king  of  terrors  sometimes  visits  earth, 

And  wears  an  angel's  smile ; — is  beautiful. 

In  beauty  visits  earth,   when  he   comes  forth, 

And   lightly  sets  his  seal  upon  the  brow 

Of  some   sweet  smiling  cherub,   much  too  pure 

For  this   our  lower  world,   and  claims   him  his, 

Gives  him   an  angel's  wings,  and   points  to  Heaven. 

It  was  a  summer's  morn,  the  budding  flowers 
Had  open'd  into  bloom,  as  on  them  smil'd 
The   glorious   god  of  day ; —  the   violet  peep'd 
From  out  its   lowly  bed,  the   daisy's  eye 
Look'd  smiling  round  on  all  it  chanc'd  to  meet, 
And  many  a  tuneful  bird   pour'd  forth  its   song, 
And  call'd  me   out  to  taste  the   fragrant  air. 
As,   chance  directed  o'er   the   lawn  I  went, 
Sought   the  low  meadow  where   the  iris  blooms, 
Cross'd  the  broad  plain  and  o'er  the  cedar  hill; 
Some   guiding   spirit  led  me   on  unseen, 
That  morn  so  bright  and  fair ;   for   soon   I   found 
Myself  beside  the   widow's  humble  home, 
Where  oft,  full  oft,  I'd  held  communings  sweet 
With  one,  a  kindred   mind. 


40  ASKETCH. 

Almost  unknowingly 

I   reach'd  the   cottage   door  and  raised  the  latch 
Beneath  the   ivy'd  porch,   almost  unconscious 
Of  my  being  there  ; — and   soon   the  tale, 
The  oft  told   tale,  was  whispered  in  my   ear, 
That  death  again  had  sped  his  fatal  dart, 
Again  had  visited   that   sweet  abode, 
Where   love  and  hope   once  dwelt. 

That  he   again, 

Amid  the  watches  of  the  silent  night, 
Had  cross'd  the   threshold  of  that  door 
And  set  his   signet  seal ; — had  triumphed  there. 
With  faltering  step  I  sought  the   chamber,   where 
Full   oft   I'd  been  before,   and  press'd  my  hand 
Upon   the   clay-cold  brow. 

Death   had  come 

And  triumph'd  there   'twas  true,  but  not  in  terror. 
Upon  its   little   couch,   a   smile   yet   playing 
Around  the   cherub  lips,   as   if  in  slumber 
Lock'd,  lay  one   of  that  bright  band  whom,  voice 
Divine   to   sinful   man   pronounc'd — "  that   of  such 
Is  the  kingdom   of  Heaven." 

Within    its 
Little  hand,  cross'd  o'er  its  breast,  an  opening 


ASKETCH.  41 

Rose-bud  lay,  sweet  emblem  of  itself  and  of 

Its    doom,    to  bloom  not    here   in  this,  dark    world 

below. 
And   'twas   the   last,   the   last   sweet  babe   of   her  I 

loved, 

As   sisters   seldom  love  each   other   here. 
And  she   was  one   who  like   myself   had  seen, 
Ah,   seen   the  earth  close  over   those   most  dear ; 
Had   oft  been   call'd  to  mourn  o'er  earth  hopes  lost. 
It  was   the   last,   the   only   one   I   said; 
It  was   her   all.     By  her  babe's   side   she   sat, 
And,   the   bitter   tear   would   course   its   way 
Adown   her   cheek.     She  murmur'd  not, 
For   she   had  plac'd  her   treasures  where 
They  were  safe  anchor'd,  safe  from  those  dark  seas, 
That  sweep   tempestuous   round   life's   feeble  bark. 
But  still   the   tearful   eye  and   heaving  breast 
Bespoke   the  mother;   and  why  should  it  not, 
For   'twas  the   last  of  all,   the   last  of  five 
Sweet  little   ones   that   once   smiled   on   her  knee? 
And  him,  her  young  heart's   chosen,  he   too  slept 
Beneath  the  grassy  turf,  beside   his  babes. 
But  again  where   were  death's   terrors   now? 
And,   that  sweet  little  bud  he   had  just   nipt, 
Where  was  it  now  ?   'twas   kindly  taken  far, 
Far  from  the  storms  of  life,  before  the  chilly  storms 


4* 


42  ASKETCH. 

Of  life's   dark  ocean   rag'd,   before   it  e'er 

Had   seen   the   bonds   of  Friendship   sever'd, 

Before   the  world  had  spread   for   it   its   snares, 

Before   its   beauteous   brow  had  felt  the   touch, 

The   iron   touch   of  care ;   before   it   e'er 

Had   bow'd   to   wordly   idols,   it  was  taken, 

Was   kindly  taken,   its  little   life   exhal'd, 

Like   the   bright  dews  of  morn,  when  the  sun's  eye, 

Smiling,   looks   on  it   from  his   throne   on   high. 

Death  had   come   in   summer's    roseate  morn, 

And   tenderly   had   clasp'd   it  to   his   arms. 

Not   as   he   sometimes   comes,  and   rudely  tears 

The   lovely  blossom   from   its  parent  stem. 

I   could  but   ask   the  sorrowing   mother 

Then,   if  she  could  call   the   little   sleeper  back? 

Could  break  his   angel  slumber   if  she   might? 

I   could  but   say  rejoice,   mother,   rejoice, 

That   thy   own  rose-bud  bloom'd  not  for  this  world, 

That   it  was   gath'red  by  the   hand   of  love, 

That   death   so  soon  set  his  own   seal   upon   it, 

Claim'd  it  his, — transplanted   it  to   worlds 

Of  endless  joy,   to  bloom  eternal  in 

The  bowers   of  heaven. 


43 


THE    SHRINE. 


There  is  a  shrine  at  which  I've  bow'd  from  earliest 
youth  till  now, 

'Twas  in  my  happy  childhood's  days  I  learnt  that 
shrine  to  know. 

In  childhood's  purity  it  was  my  soul  first  bent  the 
knee 

At  that  bright  shrine,  and  dreampt  of  joys — of  im 
mortality. 

I  dreampt,  as  then  I  stood  entranc'd,  of  brighter 
worlds  than  this, 

Of  worlds  where  spirits,  free'd  from  clay,  drink  at 
the  fount  of  bliss ; 

Where  love's  light  bonds  are  never  broke  nor  e'er 
the  bitter  tear 

Rolls  down  the  pallid  care-worn  cheek  for  disap 
pointments  here. 

And  daily  now  I  bow  me  there  to  that  all  hallow'd 
shrine ; 

It  has  an  everlasting  claim  upon  this  heart  of  mine. 

It  is  not  in  the  city's  mart,  nor  in  the  crowded  hall, 
Where   Fashion's  standard  waves   on  high  and  most 
obey   her  call  j 


44  THE      SHRINE. 

For  Fashion's  hollow  heartless  shrine  did  never  see 

me  bow 
Beneath    her    footstool ;    for    this   soul    could    never 

bend   so  low. 

Nor   is   it  where  the   God   of  Wealth   points   to  his 

heaps   of  gold ; 
No !    for    the    shrine   at    which    I    bow    was   never 

bought   nor   sold. 
Not  all  the  treasures  that  are  hid  beneath  the  earth 

or   sea 
Can    purchase   that   all  hallow'd  shrine,    so    clearly 

ope'd   to   me. 

Nor  is  it  'neath  the  vaulted  roof  of  yonder  lofty 
dome, 

That  my  soul  finds  the  beacon  bright  that  guides 
the  spirit  home ; 

No !  for  the  shrine  at  which  I  bow  was  never 
made  by  man, 

Was  never  fashion'd  'neath  his  eye  nor  form'd  be 
neath  his  plan. 

When  evening's  pensive  twilight  comes,  with  slumber 

on  her  wings, 
I  ofttimes  feel  an  influence  deep,  that  untold  rapture 

brings. 


THESHRINE.  45 

That  is  the  hour  to   me  by  far  the  holiest  of  them 

all, 
When  nature   sinks   to  calm  repose  and  night's  grey 

shadows   fall, 
And  veil  a  thoughtless  giddy  world  beneath  night's 

dusky  veil. 
That    is    the    hour    my    soul    oft    soars    its    chosen 

shrine   to   hail. 
'Tis    then  for  me,    altho'   alone   to  common  eyes   I 

seem, 
(You    smile — perhaps    you    even    say,    'tis    but    the 

poet's   dream,) 
My    shrine    is    ope'd,    is    wide   outspread,    and    my 

impassion'd   soul 
Unchain'd,    unfetter'd,    soars    away,    where    endless 

pleasures  roll. 
Perhaps  imagination  wends  to  some  far  mountain's 

brow, 
Where  storm-scath'd  pines  have  dar'd  alone  for  ages 

past  to   grow, 

From  whence  the   cataract  sends   its  foaming,  tumb 
ling   torrents   down, 
Proclaiming  that  my  shrine  is   there,   the  only  one 

I   own. 
And   as   its   thunders  rend  the  air  they  tell  the  old 

tale    o'er 
That    there' t  has   stood   since  time   began,   and  will 

till   time's   no  more. 


46  THESHHINE. 

Perhaps   on  the   same  gentle   wings  to  other  scenes 

I   stray, 
And  find   my  shrine,   where    mountain  waves  with 

the   grim  storm   God  play, 
And,    as   they   proudly  rise   and  fall,    ten    thousand 

echoes   tell 
The   same  wild  chorus  o'er  and  o'er   that  there  my 

shrine   doth   dwell, 
That  there  'tis  found,  safe  anchor'd  there,  in  sunshine 

and  in  storm, 
When   the    blue  seas   are    lull'd   to   rest    and  when 

the  winds   deform. 

I  frequent  seek  and  find  my  shrine,  when  wandering 
out  alone, 

When  nought  but  nature's  handy  work  is  'fore  my 
vision  thrown, 

When  nought  but  nature's  voice  is  heard  soft  whis 
pering  in  the  grove, 

Or  rushing  on  the  wind's  broad  wings  from  shadow 
ing  clouds  above. 

'Tis  then  before  my  shrine  I  bow,  yes,  lowly,  lowly 
bow, 

As  the  great  God  that  form'd  it  out  tells  of  his 
power  below. 

When  merry  spring  puts  on  her  robe  of  budding 
leaves  and  flowers, 


THE      SHRINE.  47 

And   calls   the  little  birds  to  sing  within  their  shady 

bowers, 
When  summer  with  her  matron  smiles  light  dances 

o'er   the  plain, 
Or  glides  along  the  waving  fields  of  yellow  ripening 

grain, 
When  autumn  comes  in  russet  brown  with  wreaths 

of  plenty  crown'd, 
When    winter  with    his  frosty  beard   walks    slowly 

o'er   the   ground, 
I  bow  to  them  for  they  adorn  that  shrine  not  made 

with  hands, 
At    which    I    worship,    for    I    have    the    firmest   of 

commands. 

And  yon  broad  arch  above  my  head,  encompassing 

the   earth, 
Yon    azure  vaults  of   ether    deep,    where    countless 

worlds  have  birth, 
The    starry    myriads,    that    there    shine   in    endless 

glory  bright, 
Spreading  their  radiance  kindly  o'er  the  dusky  brow 

of  night, 
They  all  belong  unto  that  shrine ;  so  boundless  it 

is   made, 
I    look,    I    find  it    ev'ry  where,    in    its   own    garb 

array'd. 


48  THE      SHRINE. 

'Twos    nature's   God    that    fashion'd   it,    and   spread 

o'er  it  the  sky, 

All  gloriously  shrouding  it   with  her   own  canopy  ; 
'Twas  nature's   God  commanded  me  to   seek   alone 

that  shrine, 
Saying,  "  there   worship,  and   there   lay  that  world 

sick  soul   of  thine. 
There  'twill  be   safe,  and  only  there — there   it  will 

rest  secure, 

'Till   the   last  trump  shall  call  it  home,  where   un 
told  joys   endure." 
'Tis   only  found  where    nature  reigns   in  her    own 

bright  abode; 
'Tis  there  I  go  to  seek  my  shrine,   the  shrine  of 

nature's  God. 


49 


MIDNIGHT    MUSINGS. 

Slow  sinks   the  fair  moon  in  her   green  ocean  bed, 
And  the  stars  twinkle  bright  as   she   falls  in  the 
sea ; 

The  old  mossy  oak  proudly  over  my  head 

Waves  its  arms  a  protection  and   shelter   for  me. 

I  have  sought  out  this  spot  at  this  late  hour  of  night 
To   gaze  on   the  works  of  that   Almighty  power, 

Who  made   yonder  heaven-gems  sparkle  so  bright, 
And  guides  them  in  glory's  course  onward  this 
hour. 

The  bright  Borealis  illumines  the  north, 
Its  wildfires   ascend  to  the  zenith   on  high 

And  calls   from  his   fireside   the  star-gazer  fortht 
To  gaze  with  delight  on  the  flame-girdled  sky. 

Great  is  thy  majesty,  Ruler  in  Heaven ! 

We   can  bnt  adore  thee   and  shrink   in   amaze 
Oh  !  let  us  appreciate   what  thou  hast  given, 

Thou  Almighty  power  on  whose  wonders  we  gaze. 


50 


THERE'S    BEAUTY    IN    THE    HEAVENS. 

There's   beauty   in  the   Heavens, 
When  the  lightning's   vivid  glare 

Sends   its  wild  terror  through   the  sky, 
And  dies  upon  the   air ; 

When  o'er  our  heads   is   seen   to  hang 

The  dark  and  threat'ning  cloud, 

When  full  and   deep   reverberates 

The  rolling  thunders    loud. 

There's  beauty  in  the  Heavens, 

When  not  one   cloud  is   seen 
To   wing  its  way   through  yon   broad   arch ; 

But   all   is   calm, — serene ! 

And   when   the   sky  is  seen   so   clear, 

So  beautiful,   so   bright, 
Our  thoughts  should  wing  their  way  to  Heaven, 

On  wings   of  pure  delight. 

There's   beauty  on  the   Earth, 

When   the   laughing  bright-ey'd  Spring 

Spreads   wild-flowers   o'er  the   dewy  ground, 
And  songsters,  on  the  wing, 


THERE'S   BEAUTY   IN   THE   HEAVENS.  51 

Sing  in  the   air,   or   tune   their   songs 

Amid  the  rustling  trees ; 
When  nature  puts  her  green  robe  on, 

And   smiles   on  all   she   sees. 

There's  beauty  on  the  Earth, 
When   the  cooling   Summer  showers 

Freely  descend,  and  o'er  the  ground 
The   liquid  treasure  pours; 

When   the  parch'd  fields   receive   the  gift, 

And  soon  around  are   seen 
The   late   scorch'd  plains,   in  richest  robes 

Of  nature's   brightest  green. 

There's  beauty   on   the  Earth, 
When  the  yellow   Autumn  yields 

Her  richest  fruits,  and  waving  bright 
Are   seen  the   spreading  fields  ; 

When  the  reaper,  sickle  in  his  hand, 

Is   seen  at  early  morn ; 
And  in  the  later  Autumn  months 

Is  heard  the  hunter's  horn. 

There's  beauty  on  the   Earth, 

When   the   white   frost  o'er  the   ground 


52  THERE'S   BEAUTY  IN   THE   HEAVENS. 

Creeps  still  and  slowly,  as  he  spreads 
His  glitt'ring  pearls  around. 

••:.,•.-••        .  •  -.     • 

When  the  feath'ry  snow  is  seen  to  fly 

Fast  through  the  chilly  air, 
There's  beauty  in  the   Wint'ry  storms, — 

There's  truly  beauty  there. 

There's  beauty  on  the  Deep, 
When  the  heaving  billows  roar, 

And  lash,  in  anger,  as   they  swell, 
New-England's  rocky  shore. 

There's  beauty  when  the  waves  are  hush'd, 

And  all  is  calm,  serene, 
When  the  white-wing'd  bark,  in  majesty, 

Rides  o'er  her  bed  of  green. 

There's  beauty  ever  round  us, 
In  Heaven,  on  Earth,  and  Sea  : 

'Tis  Nature's  beauty .  ever  charms, — 
Her  charms,  reality! 

,?'*••.'  '•"-    i; '.t'if'itjj -    'IO.;Jj;     -'!.•-    '•  •'.     '    ''' 

For  there's  the  hand  Omnipotent, 

We   know   that  mighty  arm 
Is  outstretch'd  wide,  is  o'er  us  throwni 

And  shields  us  from  all  harm, 


53 


SPRING'S    FIRST    MARTIN 


Welcome,   them   little   harbinger 

Of  bright  and  blooming   Spring, 
The   ever  faithful  messenger 

Of  pleasures   on   the   wing. 
Skim   o'er  the  plains,   that   soon  will   be 

Array'd  in  robes   of  green, 
Where   lambs   around   their   dams  in  play 

Will   sportingly  be  seen. 

And   make   the   welkin   ring  with  joy, 

That  happy  days  have   come, 
That  wint'ry  storms   did   not   destroy 

Thy  little   airy  home ; 
That  leaves   and   flowers  will   soon   around 

That  little   home  be  hung, 
And   others   spring  from  out   the   ground, 

For  bees  to  sport  among. 

And   soon  beside  thy  little  mate 
Thou'lt  sing  within  thy  bower, 

And  all  thy  little  joys  relate, 
To  charm  the  passing  hour; 
5* 


54         SPRING'S    FIRST    MARTIN. 

And  soon   within   that   shelter'd   home, 
A   youthful  brood   will   rise, 

And,   when  another  Spring   shall   come, 
Their  songs  will  cheer  the   skies. 


55 


THERE    IS    A    GOD. 


There  is  a    God !    was   Heav'ns  triumphant   song ; 

There  is  a  God !  was  echo'd  through  the  sky ; 
The  thunder  spake  it,  as  it  roll'd  along 

Through  black-wreath'd  clouds,  that  veil'd  the 
sun  on  high . 

"  There  is  a    God  /"    the  mountain   echoes   said ; 

"  We   feel  his   presence  shadowing  us  now  o'er." 
The   open   vale,   the   leaf-embower'd   shade, 

In   whispers   say, — "  there   is,   and  we   adore  !" 

"  There   is   a    God .'"    the   angry   waves   that  roll 
Say  to  the   ocean,   as  they  foam   and   swell. 

"  There  is  a    God  /"    they  sing  from  pole   to  pole, 
And  the   wild  winds  the   same   loud   anthem  tell. 

"  There  is  a    God .'"    all   nature  loudly  says ; 

The  wild  birds   tell  it,  as   they  sing  their  loves; 
The   Lion   roars   it,   as   he   proudly   strays 

O'er   Afric's   sands,   or  through  the   shady  groves. 

The   scaly  fry,  that  leap   from   out   the  flood, 
In  unheard  whispers  on  their   Maker  call; 


56  THERE      IS      A      GOD. 

All,  every  one  among  the  finny  brood, 
The  great  whale  says,  that  God  reigns  Lord  of  all. 

There  is  a    God  that  rules  ;    vain   mortal  man, 
Bow,  lowly  bow,  all  nature  says   'tis  so. 

This  fair   creation  is  his   mighty  plan ; 

Earth  is  his  footstool ;    mortal  man,  bow  low. 


57 


THE    POLANDER'S    FAREWELL. 

Adieu !    no  more  your  soil  I   tread ; 

My  native  land,  adieu ! 
The  vessel  waits,  the  sail  is  spread, 
The  waves  must  lull  this  aching  head, 
While  many  a  bitter  tear  I  shed, 

My  native  land,  for  you. 

Beneath  the  rod   I  hear  you  groan, 

I   see   you   lowly  bow, 
I  see  the  chains  around  you  thrown, 
You  tremble   'neath  the  tyrant's  frown, 
And  that  lov'd  land  I  call'd  my  own, 

My  home  it  is  not  now ! 

Land   of  my  birth,  my  native   land, 

Your  struggle   is   in  vain, 
The  foes  to  Freedom  round  you  stand, 
Oppression  o'er  you   waves  her   wand, 
The   iron  scourge  is   in  her  hand, 

She   rivets   firm   your  chain. 

Adieu  to  Poland's   shores,  adieu, 
An  exile   I   must  rove ; 


58      THE    POLANDEE'S    FAREWELL. 

No  hope,   tho'  in   the   distant   view 
Dart  glim'ring  rays   my  bosom  through, 
No  ray  of  light  I   see   for   you, 
Land   of  my  birth   and  love. 

I  can  but  on  your   sufferings   dwell, 

I  can  but  grieve   and  sigh, 
Your  wrongs,  your  woes  no  tongue  can  tell, 
Your  galling  chains   are  fasten'd  well, 
While   Russia's  bird,   with  talons  fell, 

Rejoices,  as   you   die. 

Yes,  Russia's   Eagle   sings   aloud, 

'Tis  your   death-song  he   sings, 
He  winds   around  you  close   your   shroud, 
Made   of  the  thundering  battle   cloud, 
While   your  death-groan  is  heard  aloud, 

And   o'er  the   wide   world   rings. 


59 


STANZAS, 


To  sit,  at  evening's  pensive  hour, 

Where  gentle   waving  trees 
Hold  converse,  when  the  night  shades  lower 

With  ev'ry  passing  breeze, 
To  linger  by  some  murm'ring  brook, 

Slow  winding  through  the  vale, 
And  read  in  nature's  mystic  book 

Her  never  tiring  tale ; 

To  wander  o'er  the  lawn  at  eve, 

Just   as   the   setting  sun 
Of  this,   our  world,   is  taking  leave, 

His   daily   errand  done, 
To   tread  the  peb'ly  beach  and   hear 

Accushnet's   waves  tell  true, 
How  oft  the  forest  warrior  there 

Has  launch'd  his  light  canoe; 

And  how  full  oft  within  its  tide 

The   dark-ey'd,   dusky  maid 
Destin'd  to  be   the  warrior's  bride, 

Her  graceful   form  hath  laid: 


60  STANZAS. 

Such  musing  scenes  are  far  more  dear 
To  me,  than  crowded   hall, 

For  they  my  lov'd  companions  are; 
They  have  my  heart — my  all. 


61 


STANZAS. 


Tell   me   not  of  warmer   breezes, 

Fanning  a   more  genial   clime, 
Where   the   streamlet  never  freezes, 

Where   the   orange   blooms,   and   lime. 
Tell  me   not  of  myrtle   bowers, 

Sheltering   many  a   noontide  dream, 
Tell  me  not  of  fairer  flowers, 

Ever  blooming  by   the   stream. 

Tell   me   not  that  frost   gems   never 

Sparkle   'mid  those   skies   so   fair, 
That   the   Seasons   roll   forever 

On   bright  rosy   pinions   there. 
Skies  there  can't  be,   that  are   clearer, 

Than   those  hanging  o'er  my  head  ; 
Flowers  there   can't  be,   that  are   dearer, 

Than  those   in   the  path   I   tread. 

I  don't  wish  for  flow'rs  blooming 
Fresh  in  beauty  all  the  year, 

Every  zephyr's  breath  perfuming, 
As  they  brush  the  skies  so  clear. 


62  STANZAS. 

No,   that  clime   so  fair   is   blasted ; 

There   the   foulest  vapors   fly, 
And   the   cup   the    slave   has   tasted, 

Ever   there  is   standing  by. 


63 


DECEMBER. 


December's   come   with   snow   and   hail 

Driving  o'er  the  plain, 
Hear  him,  as  the  wild  winds  wail, 

Boasting  of  his  reign: 
Hear  him  tell  his  chilling  tale 

O'er   and  o'er   again. 

Icy  gems  are  glit'ring  round  him,   , 

Snowy  is  his  hair ; 
Why  could  not  have  Autumn  bound  him, 

In  his  cavern  lair  ? 
There  November's  last  day  found  him, 

Shiv'ring,   shaking  there. 

Let   the   cheerful  fire  burn  bright, 

On  the  Winter  hearth, 
Lest  his  grizzly  locks  should  fright 

Innocence   and  mirth ; 
Both  are  gather'd  here   to-night; 

Angels  form  their   birth. 

Rule,   December,   rule   with  reason, 
Throw  one   smile   around ; 


64  DECEMBER. 

January's   plotting   treason, 

In  your   track  he's   found ; 
When  you've   reign'd   your   given  season, 

You   must  leave  the   ground. 

Deign  your   anger  just  to   smother, 

Till  your  reign  is  done ; 
Deign  to  smile  upon  your  brother, 

Your  own  father's  son, 
Offspring  of  another  mother, 

Winter's  second  one. 


65 


THE    INVITATION. 


The  sun  is  up,  the  sky  is  clear, 
And  wild-flowers  bloom  in  every  dell; 

Don't  let   us  longer  linger  here; 

But  seek   the   haunts   we  love   so   well. 

The   swallow  lightly   skims   the   green, 
The   blackbird   warbles   high  in   air, 

And   o'er   the   mountain   top   is   seen 
The   eagle   proudly   soaring   there. 

The  sun  is  smiling  on  the  mead, 
The  bees  are  sporting  flowers  among, 

And  ev'ry  blade  of  grass  I  tread, 
With  jewels  from  the  stars  is  hung. 

The   very  echoes   of  the  wood 
Are   calling  us,   and  let's   away; 

And,  where   the    old  mill  long  hath  stood, 
We'll   hear   the   falling  waters   play. 

Come,   Mary,   come,   and   o'er   the  lawn, 
And  taste   the   morning   air   of  June; 

The  sky-lark  ever  since  the  dawn, 
Has  call'd  us  with  his  sweetest  tune. 


66 


ECHO. 


Maid  of  the   wilderness,   heard,  but  not  seen, 
Living   so   lonely,   where  eye  ne'er  hath  been, 
Dweller  of  cavern,   of  mountain,   and  wild, 
Say, — are   you   not   truly  solitude's  child  ? 
Echo.— Solitude's  child  ? 

And  well  do  we   know   it, — but   now  tell   to  me, 
In   what   fairy  land   your   sweet   face   I    may  see ; 
Or   say,   shall  you   hide   from   my  vision   forever  ? 
If  so,  will   you  say   so  ? — if  not,   say  no  never. 
Echo. — No  never. 

Then   hope,   it   is  over,   perhaps   'tis   as   well; 

But  I  know  very  near  where   you  frequently  dwell ; 

Sometimes    on    yon  mountain  cliff  your  home   has 

been, 

And  sometimes  we  hear   you   in  yonder  deep  glen. 
Echo. — In   yonder  deep  glen. 

Sometimes    you  are   here,    and  sometimes    you   are 

there, 
And  sometimes  we  call  you,  and  hear  you  nowhere ; 


ECHO.  67 

And   sometimes   you  follow  wherever  we   go ; 
Why   'tis   you  behave   so   I'm  sure   I   don't  know. 
Echo. — I'm   sure  I   don't  know. 

Tis   true,   I  believe  you;    'tis  just  as   I   think; 
But   you're  now  passing  leisurely  close  to   the  brink 
Of    yon   frightful   precipice  ! — sure,   you   don't  know 
The   danger   you're   in   half  so  well   as  I   do. 
Echo. — I  do. 

You  follow   the   hunter  at  break   of  the   morn; 
Your  assistance   is   great  to  the  deep  winding  horn  ; 
And  the  dogs  should  be  grateful,  for  who  is't  but  you, 
That  bellows,  as   long  and   as  loud,   as  they   do  1 
Echo. — As   they   do  ? 

You   ar«   of  great   consequence ;    now  tell  me   why 
'Tis    you    make    so   much    noise  ?    you  will    surely 

reply. 

For   if  you    exist   on't   we   plainly  can   see, 
That   the  noise  is   not  all   for  amusement  and   glee. 
Echo. — Amusement  and   glee. 

Maid   of  the   wilderness,   altho'   so   shy, 

I   ever   shall   love   you,  but   cannot  tell   why; 

And  now   I  must   leave    you,   and    homeward   must 

wend; 
But    I'll    give    you   my  promise,    I'll  e'er  be    your 

friend. 

Echo. — I'll  e'er  be   your   friend. 


68 


TO    A    HUMMING     BIRD. 


Did  you  come  from  the  land  of  the  fairy  sprite 
On   the   gossamer   wings   of  the   morn? 

Where   do   you   rest  when   the   stars   shine  bright  ? 
Do   you   rest   in   the   flowery  thorn  ? 

Little   girl  I   was  never   in   fairy  land ; 

I   live   in   the   green-wood   tree ; 
My   home   it   is   where   the   tall   oaks   stand, 

And  my   little  nest   there   you   may  see. 

But   long   you   may   look,   and   never   may   find 

My  soft  little   leaf-shelter'd  nest ; 
'Tis   covered  with   moss   and  with   down   it   is  lin'd, 

And   my   little  ones   safely   there   rest. 

You   may  look   long   in   vain   for  my   hiding   place, 
'Tis   hard   for   the   most   searching   eye 

Of  my  little   moss   nest   to   find   e'en  one   trace, 
Altho'   you   may  be   very  nigh. 

On   my   emerald   wings   I   this   morn   away   flew 
To   steal  from   your   fairest   flowers ; 


TO      A      HUMMINN      BIRD.  69 

I  got  my   fill  of  the   sweet  honey  dew, 
Then    I  hastened  back  to   my  bowers. 

I   have   two   little  birds   in  my   snug  little   home, 
And  I   feed   them  with  honey   so  sweet, 

That  I  steal  from  your  flowers,  when  thither  I  roam, 
And  leave  my  embower'd  retreat. 

But   I   know  that  I'm  welcome,  you'd  never  refuse 
The  honey    I  find   in  your  flowers; 

So  there  I  shall  wander,  whenever   I  choose, 
At  morn,  eve,  or  noon's  sunny  hours. 


ro 


THE    MUSIC    I    LOVE. 


"  And  surely  you  must  be   of  music   a  lover." 
I'm   frequently   ask'd   so ;    yes,   music  I   love. 

But   not    what   the  amateur  calls   music,   over 
The   world;    but  the   melody   sent  from   above. 

I   love,  when  I  rise   in   a  bright  summer   morning, 
To   hear  'mong   my  flowers  the  hum   of  the   bee. 

There's  many,  I  know,  that  my  taste  will  be  scorn 
ing; 
But  surely   'tis  music   the   sweetest  to   me. 

The   wood  warbler  wild,  in   the   mossy  oak   singing, 
Is   sweeter  by   far   to   my   untutor'd   ear, 

Than    the    trills,    that    the    winds    are    from    Italy 

bringing, 
To  charm  the   more   tasteful  with  melody  here. 

I   love    the    wild    breeze,   when    'tis    heard    in    the 
bowers, 

Or  heard  softly  tuning   its   notes   in   the   grove, 
Or   whispering  zephyr  caressing  the   flowers  : 

Oh !    that   is   the  music   that  dearly    I   love. 


THE      MUSIC      I      LOVE.  71 

The  wavelet,   propelled   by  the  wind  gently  blowing, 
And   meeting  the   surf  on    the   pebbly   shore, 

Is  music   to   me ;    so   is   ocean's   waves   flowing, 
And   breaking   their   surges  the   rocky   cliff  o'er. 

Of  the  music   of  nature  I'm  ever   a   lover; 

I'm  charm'd  with  her  voice  upon  land,  or  on  sea ; 
Even,  when  she  is  heard  in  the  threat'ning  cloud 
over 

My   head,   she   is   sweet,   for  her  lover   I   be. 

The   Harp  that  I   own  wakes   to   no   hand   but  na 
ture  ; 

The   sweet  Harp   of  Germany  never   affords 
Such   music  to  my  ear,   as  when   my   Creator 

Directs   the   wild   winds  o'er  jEolian   chords. 

Sing    on,    my    own    Harp  !     be    unchained    as    the 

river  ! 
Be    free,   when    you    sing,    as   the    breeze    borne. 

along, 

And  striking   your  wild   notes,  and  never,  no   never 
Don't   barter   those   notes   for   the   manacled  song. 


72 


MAY    DAY. 


Tis    May  Day,  O,  'tis  May  Day, 
And   the   flowers   they  do  not  bloom ; 

'Tis   cold  and  wet  and   dreary ; 
The  clouds  are   hung  in  gloom! 

I  was  thinking,  when  came  May  Day, 
As  it  came  but  once  a  year, 

That  the  birds  they  would  be  singing, 
And  that  Flora  would  be  here. 

But,   'tis   old   England's   May   Day, 

Of  which   the   poets   sing, 
Adorn'd   with   flow'ry  garlands, 

The   sweetest   day  in   Spring. 

It  never  was  our  May  Day, 

With   clouds   and   darkness  hung, 
The   chilly   wind's   wild   whistling 
The   budding   flowers  among. 

Oh,   for   old   England's   May  Day, 
When   I   could   cull  the   flow'rs, 


MAYDAY.  73 

And  listen  to   the  nightingale 
At  eve   among   the   bowers. 

They  tell  us,   there,  on  May  Day, 

That  daisies  strew  the  plain ; 
But  here,   upon  New-England's   shore, 

Fast  falls   the   sleet  and  rain. 

'Tis   said  that   there,   on  May   Day, 

Throughout   the    vales  and  groves, 
Is   heard   the   sweetest  melody, 

As   wild   birds   sing   their  loves ! 

They  tell  the  joys  of  May   Day 

To   every  breeze  that  blows, 
And   call   upon   the   honey  bee 

To   sip   from  ev'ry  rose. 

But  here,  altho'  'tis   May   Day, 

I   sit  beside   the   fire, 
And  listen  to   the  chilling   wind, 

That  seems   to  never  tire. 

I'll  never  think  of  May  Day, 

As   I  have   thought  before ; 
For  round  my  home  the   chill  wind  blows, 

And  frost  creeps  round  my  door. 


74 


THE    GONDOLIER. 


I'll  dream  awhile  of  Italy  and  its  boundless  azure 
skies, 

Of  Venice  rising  from  the  sea,  lit  up  with  a  thou 
sand  dies  ; 

I'll  dream  I  stand  before  her  shrines,  beneath  her 
skies  so  clear, 

And  list  awhile  to  the  merry  song  of  the  happy 
Gondolier. 

For   who's   not  heard  of  Italy,   the   chosen   land  of 

song  ? 
Who    has    not    in    idea    roved    her    classic    shades 

among  1 
And  fancied,  as  I  often   do,  when  the  heart  is  free 

from  care, 
That    they  heard    the    song,    as   it     sweetly   woke, 

of  the   merry    Gondolier  ? 

I've   oft  been  told  of  worlds  of  art,  that  grace  that 

favor'd  land, 
That  captivate  the  gazer's  heart,  when  they  before 

them  stand ; 
That  the  painter's  and  the  sculptor's  skill  are  seen 

in  glory  there, 


THE      GONDOLIER.  75 

While  around  them  floats  on  the  wings  of  wind 
the  song  of  the  Gondolier. 

I've  often  fancied  that  I  stood  there  gazing  on  the 
west, 

And  seen  the  sun's  departing  rays  in  rainbow  glo 
ry  drest, 

And  linger'd,  as  I  gazed  upon  the  purple  sea  so 
fair, 

While  gently  woke  with  the  light  guitar  the  voice 
of  the  Gondolier. 

Oh,  Italy,  oh,  Italy,  how  is  thy  fame  laid  low ! 
With  all  the   magic   of  high   art  around  thee   thou 

didst  bow, 
With    all  thy  charms  of  mimic  skill,  so    beautiful 

and  rare, 
Thou   didst  bow  low;    but  still  thou  hast  thy  own 

gay    Gondolier. 

He's  e'er  the  same,  and  sweet  his  song  at  morn 
ing,  noon,  and  night; 

He  sings  as  blithe  and  merry  too,  as  the  bird  of 
beauty  bright ; 

He's  e'er  the  same,  for  his  heart's  not  woke  to 
worldly  woe  or  care ; 

But  merrily   he  glides   along,   Italia's    Gondolier. 


76 


THE    WATER    KELPY 


"  May   it  be   the   lot  of  me 

Ever   to  dwell  in  moonlit   sea, 

Ever   be   it  mine   to  dwell, 

Where   the  gentle  ripples   swell ; 

For   I  love,  when  the  moon  rides  high, 

Over   and  under  the   waves   to   fly." 

"  O'er  the   land  and  sea  I'm  fam'd  ; 
I'm  the    Water   Kelpy  nam'd ; 
Fam'd   for  my   love  of  brook  and  lake, 
Lulling  the   waves,  as   they  wildly  break, 
Guarding  them,   as   they  roll   along, 
Singing  them  my  sweetest  song." 

"  Why,   O,  why   should  the  maiden  fear 
At  eve  my  sweetest  song  to  hear  ? 
Why,   O,  why  should  the   simple   swain 
Hasten  so   quickly  over  the  plain, 
When  my  sweetest  song   I   sing, 
And  ruffle   the   deep  in  a  fairy  ring  ?" 


THE      WATER      KELPY.  77 

Thus   the   Water  Kelpy   sung, 
Sporting   the   moonlit  waves   among, 
Bathing  her   form   in   the   moon's  pale   rays, 
As   round  her   the   trout  or  the  salmon  plays. 
Sweet   she   sung,   and   a  simple   boy 
Heard   her   song,  and   he   danced  with  joy! 

Simple   boy,   beware  !   beware  ! 

For  you  now  there's   laid   a  snare ; 

Hie   away    far  from   the   stream, 

Don't  of  the   moonlight  music   dream ; 

Hie   away  to   yonder    cot, 

Pon't   let   Mary  be   forgot. 

Simple   boy,   'twas   but  next  eve 

He   of  his  Mary   took   his   leave  ; 

For   the   song  again   he   heard, 

Join'd  by   the   note   of  the   night-shade   bird. 

'Twas   like   music   sent  from   above, 

Softly   struck  by  the   hand   of  love  ! 

Wilful  boy,   away !   away  ! 
Tarry   not  by  the  lake   side,   pray, 
Oft  you've  heard    of  the   Kelpy  sprite, 
Laying  her  lure  on  a  moonlit  night; 
Hie  to   the   cot  by   the   side  of  the   hill, 
Mary  waits   her   lover  still. 
7* 


78  THE      WATER      KELPY. 

The  Kelpy  sings   her  sweetest  strain, 

And   charms   the   heart   of  the   simple   swain ; 

Nearer  and  nearer  now  to  the  brink  ! 

Now   the   sands   begin   to   sink ! 

Down   he   goes,  his   fate   is   past ! 

He  is   hers ;   she   has   lock'd  him   fast ! 


79 


TO    MY    GREYHOUND,    SWEEP. 


From  Italy,   sweet  Italy,   the  cradle-home   of   song, 
'Twas   in    that    bright    and   sunny    clime  that    once 

you   did   belong. 
Italia    was    your  birth-place,    to   England  you   was 

bound, 
But     some    kind    spirit    chang'd    your     course,    my 

beautiful    Greyhound. 

You're  truly  form'd  in  beauty's  mould ;  how  spark 
ling  is  your  eye ! 

What  form  could  be  more  beautiful,  as  o'er  the 
plains  you  fly  ! 

Your  glossy,  fine  and  jetty  coat,  how  beautiful  to 
see  ! 

And  your  truly  noble  bearing  proclaims  your  high 
degree. 

Your   step   is   lighter  than  the   doe,   when  bounding 

o'er   the   plain ; 
Now  you   are    almost  out  of    sight,    now  you    are 

here  again ; 


80 


TO      MY      GREYHOUND,      SWEEP. 


The   swallow    now   attracts   your   eye,    again   you're 

out   of  sight; 
I'm    sure    you    almost    equal    it    in    your    terrestial 

flight. 

How  different  would  have   been   your   life   had  you 

reach'd   England's  shore, 
And    with    the    freedom    of    the    wind    ranged    the 

wild   wood-lands   o'er  ? 
Rous'd  by   the   merry   huntsman's   horn,   how    gaily 

from   the   hills 
You'd    brush'd    the    bright   and    glit'ring  dew,   that 

Autumn's   night   distils  ? 

But  tho'  far  different  the  life,  that  you  now  lead 
with  rne, 

I  doubt,  if  happier  you'd  have  been  on  England's 
flow'ry  lea ; 

Altho'  you  do  not  taste  the  air  so  early  in  the 
morn, 

Altho'  you're  not  so  gaily  rous'd  by  merry  hunts 
man's  horn, 

You    think    you    are    my    favorite,    and  it    is   even 

true  ; 
My   guardian    spirit    sent  you   here  ;     a    friend    I'll 

be   to   you. 


TO      MY      GREYHOUND,      SWEEP.         81 

While  I've  a  home,  you'll  e'er  have  one,  and  have 

my   kindest  care  ; 
You     are     my    sole    companion,    and    my    favorite 

you  are. 

And  happy   too,  I  know  you  are,  to  find   with  me 

a  home, 
It   was  to   live  with   me   alone,    that  o'er    the   seas 

you  come. 
You  love   me   well,  I  know  you   do  ;    your  love   I 

plainly   spy  ; 
I   see   it   in  your  full  black,   bright  and  intellectual 

eye. 

Sweep  o'er  the  plains,  my  darling  Sweep  ; — Sweep 
o'er  the  dewy  lawn  ; 

Your  step  is  far  more  graceful,  than  the  lightest 
forest  fawn  ; 

Now  with  the  fleetness  of  the  wind  you're  hast 
ing  back  again  ; 

How  truly  beautiful  you  are,  as  you  sweep  o'er 
the  plain ! 


82 


BOAT    SONG 


We're  now  where   sea-maids   sweetly   sing 

And  comb   their  waving,   golden  hair; 
The   ocean   caves  beneath   us   ring, 

As   their  wild  music   floats   in  air. 
We're  gliding   o'er   the   briny  deep  ; 

The   waters   scarcely   seem  to  flow, 
And,   as   the   wavelets  wake  from   sleep, 

Fair   Cynthia  bends   her  silver  bow. 

The   stars  hang   twinkling  in   their  spheres, 

The    moonbeams   gild   the   waters   bright, 
While   gently   falls   night's   dewy   tears, 

And  mingles  with   the   liquid   light. 
Row,  boatman,   row,   the   dipping   oar 

Scarce   breaks   among   the  waves   below  ; 
Haste  !    let  us  reach  our  native   shore, 

While   Cynthia  bends   her   silver  bow. 

The  island  rock,   the  lighthouse   tower, 
Bright   beacons   to   the   sailor   brave ; 

We   hail  them    all,   this   happy   hour, 
And   farewell   soon   the  briny  wave. 


BOATSONG.  83 


And   farewell   too  our  trusty  bark ; 

No   more  upon   the  waves   we  go  ; 
In   yonder  grove   our  home  we  mark, 

Lit   bright   by   Cynthia's   silver  bow. 


84 


THE    GIFT. 


Take,   take   it,   for  I  give  it  thee; 

'Tis   all   that  thou   wil't  have   from   me ; 

'Tis   all   I   have  ;    it  can't  be   sold ; 

It  can't  be  bought  with   gems,   or  gold. 

I  give  it   thee,   for  thou   to   keep, 

To   guard,  both  waking  and   in   sleep ; 

Take,   take  the   gift,  before   we   part ; 

Take,   take   it,   'tis   a   faithful  heart. 

No   diamond   do  I  to   thee  bring, 
Bright  glit'ring   on   the   mystic   ring  ; 
No   pearl,   brought  from   the   seamaid's   cave, 
Pure   from  its   bed  beneath   the   wave  ; 
No  flower,   begem'd   with   dews   of  night, 
Sparkling  beneath   the   moon's   pale   light ; 
No,   Mary,  no  ;    but  ere  we  part, 
I   give   to   thee   a  faithful  heart. 

I   go   to   distant   lands   awhile, 
And  leave   thy   sweet  endearing  smile. 
The   sail  is   up,  the  breeze   is  fair, 
I'll  go,   my  love,  where   dangers   are. 


THE      GIFT.  85 


My  country's  banner's  seen  to  fly 
In  bold  relief  against  the  sky. 
I  go,  my  Mary,  ere  we  part, 
Take,  take  an  ever  faithful  heart. 


8 


86 


TO    ELIZABETH 


The   world    is    bright    before    thee  !    fair    bride,    its 

flowers   are   thine  ; 
The  world  is  bright  before  thee  !  its  pleasures  round 

thee  twine  ; 
The   world  is  bright  before  thee  !    go  taste  the  cup 

of  joy, 

'Tis   sparkling  bright  before   thee,   and   seems  with 
out   alloy. 
Drink    deep,    fair    bride  !    it    brims     for    thee,     and 

may'st   thou  never  know 
The    time    when    sorrow's    clouds    may    hang   their 

shadows   o'er  thy  brow. 
The   world    is    bright    before   thee  !    and    as    I    see 

thee   stand, 
I  call   on   Heaven    to   bless   thee,   and   him   at    thy 

right  hand. 

I  pray  that  thou  may'st  ever  a  priceless  jewel  prove 
To  him  who   takes   thee   to   his   breast    the   chosen 

of  his   love. 

I  can  but  see  thee  now,  as  when  one  fair  Novem 
ber  morn, 

Ere  my  hope's  fairest,  brightest  flower  was  from 
my  bosom  torn, 


TO      ELIZABETH      .  87 

Ere  sorrow's  clouds  had  spread  for  me  their  dark 
and  with'ring  gloom, 

And  I  stood  then  as  thou  dost  now  within  the 
bridal  room. 

I  can  but  see  thee  now  as  then,  a  lovely  little 
child, 

Fair  as  the  opening  eye  of  day,  as  summer's  morn 
ing  mild ; 

Free  as  the  breeze  that  hovers  round  spring's  bright 
est,  fairest  flowers, 

And  steals  their  honey'd  sweets  away  to  bear  to 
distant  bowers  : 

I  can  but  see  thee  now  as  then,  that  morning 
when  I  gave 

My  hand  and  pledged  my  youthful  vows  to  one 
now  in  the  grave  ; 

Don't  wonder  then  that  I  am  sad,  that  tears  do 
almost  start, 

For  the  gushing  tide  of  memory  comes  rushing 
o'er  my  heart. 

I  would  not  have  thee  breathe  one  sigh,  I  would 
not  have  thee  think 

One  moment  of  the  bitter  cup  it  has  been  mine 
to  drink, 

Since  that  fair  morn — but  never,  oh  !  oh  never 
may  it  be 

The  lot  of  thine  to  taste  the  cup  that  fate  pre 
sented  me. 


88  TO      ELIZABETH      —      —  . 


'Tis     done  !  —  Elizabeth,    'tis    done  !  —  thy    vows    are 

pledged,   are   given, 
Have    reached    the   Eternal    throne    on    high  !  —  are 

registered  in   Heaven  ! 
A    wife    thou    art  !  —  may    every   joy    a    wife    hath 

ever  known, 

WF 

Be    scattered    freely    o'er    thy    head    and    in    thy 

pathway   thrown  ; 
May  every    beauteous    bud  of   Hope  that   promises 

so   fair, 
Burst  into  bloom   for   thee  and  thine,  beneath  Hea 

ven's  fostering  care. 

Go   now,  fair  bride,  and  wear  the  wreath  encircling 

thee   so  bright, 
We  pray  that  sorrow  never  may  its   budding  beau 

ties  blight, 
Go,   leave    us,    tho'  we    love   thee   and    fain    would 

have   thee   stay, 
But  sometimes  cast  a  lingering  thought  on  friends, 

tho'  far  away, 
They  pray    that    God  may    bless    thee,    and    when 

time   may   come 
That  thou  must  leave   thy  earthly  joys,  that  Angels 

guide   thee   home. 


89 


THE    YOUNG    WIFE. 


Come  over  the   hills  love   and  hasten   to  me, 
Come  over  the   mountains,   the   valley  and  lea  ; 
The   winter  has   pass'd,  and   all   over  the   mead 
Are   daisies  and  dew-drops   and  buttercups  spread. 

Altho'   the    green  mountains    between  us  are   high, 
Come   over   them   Willie,   on   wings   of  love   fly, 
The   spring-time   has   come,  and    the   birds    sweetly 

sing, 
And   spread,   oh,  how  happy,  each  little  light  wing. 

Our  orchard   is   blooming,  its   fragrance   how  sweet, 
And  many   a   flower   decks   our  garden  retreat ; 
How   happy   would   home   be — but   oh,   it   is  so, 
Some   ill   must  have   happen'd  to   Willie   I   know. 

How    long    has    the    time    been,    how    gloomy  and 

long  ; 

How  long  since   my   Willie   has   listened  my  song, 
And     our    sweet     little    baby,    how     much    it    has 

grown 
Since    miles    quite    unnumber'd    between    us    were 

thrown. 


90  THE      YOUNG      WIFE. 

The   spring-time   has  come  and  all   nature   is  gay, 
What   is   that  keeps   my  dear   Willie   away  ; 
Oh  did  he  but  dream  half  my  doubts   and  my  fears, 
I  know  he  would  come  and  kiss  off  the  salt  tears. 

His   wife   and   his  baby   I   know  he   loved  well ; 
Some   ill  must  have  happen'd,  must  to  him  befell. 
Hark  !    somebody  raps  !    it  is   him,   at  the   door ; 
'Tis    Willie,   I  know,   and   my  trouble   is  o'er. 


91 


THE    FISHERMAN'S    WIDOW 


Yes,   you   can  laugh,   my  little   one, 

And   let   your  joy   be   known, 
Altho'   a   father's   tender   care 

Can   ne'er   be   o'er  you   thrown. 

Yes,   you   can   laugh,   can   sweetly   smile, 
Tho'  sorrow   throws   her   darts 

Around  my   little    innocent, 
And   withers   kindred   hearts. 

One   year   ago,   my  orphan   boy, 

One   year   ago    this   day, 
Your   father   sunk   to   rise   no   more, 

In  yonder   rolling  bay. 

It  was   on   yonder   sea-beat   rock 

His   little   bark   was   cast ; 
Oh  !    how   the   white  foam   through  the   air 

Was   hurried   by   the   blast  ! 

Two   weeks  before   he    left   the  shore, 

A  fisherman  was   he, 
And   as   he   left  our  cottage   door, 

He   kiss'd  both   you   and  me. 


92         THE    FISHERMAN'S    WIDOW. 

A  lovely  babe   within  my  arms, 

Cradled   in   sleep   you  lay  ; 
He  kiss'd   you,  as   you  smiling   slept, 

And  hurried  fast   away. 

Quickly   he   launch'd   his   little   bark, 

And  raised  the   snowy   sail, 
He  wav'd  his   hand,   (Oh,   God  in  Heaven  !) 

And   I   must   tell   the   tale. 

The   winds   they   wafted   him   from   sight, 

Far,   far   across   the   sea ; 
The   white   sail   vanish'd,   and  no   more 

He  came   to   you  and  me. 

One  early   morn   with  joy   I   hail'd 

The   rising   of  the    sun, 
And   ere   its   sitting,   hoped   to   find 

The   sailor's   voyage   done. 

Altho'   the   sun  arose   so   fair, 

And   not   one   cloud  at    morn 
Was   o'er   the   vaulted   arch  on  high 

By   the   light  breezes   borne  ; 

But,   ere   the   noon,   dark   clouds   were   seen 

To   veil   the   sun   on   high, 
And  loud  and  deep   the   thunders   roll'd 

In   echoes   through   the   sky. 


THE    FISHERMAN'S    WIDOW.         93 

Far,   far  across   the   foaming   sea, 

Distant  afar  from  land, 
A   sail  was  seen ;    I  sought  the   shore, 

The   spot  where   now  we   stand. 

I   left  you   in  your  cradle   bed, 

I   left   you   there   my   child ; 
But   from   that  hour,   my   orphan   boy, 

Your   mother  never  smiled. 

The   little   bark   across   the   waves 

By   the   wild   winds   was   driven, 
And   toward  yon   rock   it  made  its   way, 

Beneath  the   frowns  of  Heaven. 

'Twas   on   yon  rock,   yon   sea-beat   rock, 

The   little   bark   was   borne  ; 
I   saw   it  hurried,   saw   it   cast  ; 

In  fragments  it  was   torn. 

I   saw,   my  boy,   my   orphan  boy, 

As   lightnings   lit  the   wave, 
Your   father   sink,  my  child — my  child, 

Into  his  wat'ry  grave  ! 

And  here,   throughout  the  raging  storm, 

Upon   this   spot   I   stood, 
Unmindful   of  the   angry   storm, 

That   swept  the   foaming   flood. 


94         THE    FISHERMAN'S    WIDOW. 

And  every  day   I've   sought  the  shore, 

Day  after  day  I've   come 
To   gaze   upon   the   briny   deep, 

Your  father's   wat'ry  home. 

And  even  you,  my   darling  boy, 
Altho'   your   charms   are  bright, 

Can   never   for   one   moment  bring 
One   thought   that  can   delight. 

I   see   you,   a   poor  orphan  child, 
Thrown   on   my  feeble   care 

To   feel   the  frowns   of  cruel   fate, 
Tempted   by   every   snare. 

And  as  your  father's  looks  I  trace 
So  plainly,  when  you  smile, 

I  kiss  your  lips,  and  on  your  face 
The  tears  fall  fast  the  while. 

And  as   I   gaze   upon  your  brow, 
Where    clustering  ringlets   wave, 

It  brings  unto  my  sorrowing  mind 
Your  father's  briny  grave. 

And  when   I   see    that   father's  smile 
Light   up  your  bright,   blue   eyes, 

I  almost   wish   I   had   my  home, 
Where  that  dear   father    lies. 


95 


THE    SUNSET    GUN. 


The   evening   sun  sets   fair, 

The  waves   are   hush'd   and   still, 

No   wind's  breath   whispers   in   the   air, 
No   sound,   save   yonder  rill. 

And,   as    the   crimson   west, 

Receives   the    sinking   sun, 
Slowly  booms   over   ocean's   breast 

The  thundering   sunset  gun. 

From   where   yon   flag   on   high 
Twines   round   its   firm   support, 

It   tells   in   echoes   to   the   sky 
'Tis   guardian   of  yon  fort. 

It   tells   to   all  around 

The   hour   of  labor's   done  ; 
With  joy   is  hail'd   the   welcome   sound 

That   comes   from   yonder   gun. 

Where   yonder   walls   arise 

From   out   the   sea  green   wave, 

Where   oft   the  starry  banner   flies, 
And   hearts   both  bold  and  brave  ; 


%  THE      SUNSET      GUN. 

And,  should  their  country  call, 
We'd  find   them  link'd,   as   one, 

And   see   them  point  from  yonder  wall 
Columbia's   thunder  gun. 

Firm   as  a  rock   they   stand, 
To   guard  their  native   shore, 

A   true   and   ever   ready  band, 
Should  danger  on  her  lower. 

But  should  their  country's  voice 
With   danger  fraught  e're   come, 

Those   gallant  ones  would  then  rejoice 
To  point  the   thunder    gun. 

But  long  may  dove-eyed  Peace 
Wave   o'er  our  land  her  wings  ; 

Oh,  may   her  blessings   never  cease 
Mid  war's   dread   sufferings. 

May  those   brave   ones   that   now 
See   their  day's  duty  done, 

Be   never  call'd  war's   trump  to   blow, 
Or  charge   the   thunder  gun. 

Long  may  sweet  Peace  remain, 
In  beauty  bright  and  fair, 

And  never  on  the  battle  plain 
Be   seen  in  mourning  there. 


THE      SUNSET      GUN.  97 

May  the  war-song,  so  loud, 

So   dreaded,  when  begun, 
Ne'er  add  grim  terror  to  the  cloud 

That  rises  from  yon  gun. 


98 


THE    WISH. 


Give   me   not  the  wreath  of  fame  ; 

'Twould  burn  upon   my  brow  ; 
But  gather  me  a  wild  flower  wreath 

CulPd  where  they   freely   grow. 

'Twould   better   suit  my  taste  by  far, 

I   love   them   all   so   well, 
Wild  blooming   in  their  native   bowers, 

By   streamlet,   or  in   dell. 

Give  me   not  the  city's   mart, 
Its   crowded   streets   and   din  ; 

But  lead  me   to   sweet  nature's   haunts, 
Far,   far  away  from  sin. 

For  purity   is   known   to   shun 

The  city's   noisome  air, 
Her   snowy   vestments   seldom   find 

A   shelter  for   them   there. 


THE      WISH. 


99 


Nor  give   to  me  the   wealth  untold 

Of  fam'd   Potosi's  mines  ; 
For  it  would  drown  my  heart  with  care, 

Tho*   it  so  brightly   shines. 

I  ask  not  Fortune's   golden  smiles, 
The   heartless   ones   she   gives ; 

And  worthless   is  the  diadem 
Her  favorite   child  receives. 

Give  me  not  the   lofty  dome 

With  marble   columns  rear'd  ; 
But  give   to  me  a  humble  home, 

By   love   and  friendship  cheer'd. 

Beside  some  grove  or  ancient  tree 

Uprear  my  lowly  walls, 
And  let  all  simple   nature   craves 

Attend  upon  my  calls. 

Far  from  all  worldly  care   and  strife, 

Far   from   the   noisy   town, 
My  home  should  be,  my  soul's  own   home, 

The   only  one  she'll   own. 

For   oft  she   seeks  the   secret  shade, 

And  revels  in   the  grove ; 
'Tis  there  my  happy  home   should  be, 

Where  pure   winds   ever   rove. 


100  THE      WISH. 

There,  free  from  every  worldly  care, 
My  life  should  glide  away, 

And  the  soft  rills  that  murmur  there 
Should  listen  to  my  lay. 

And  every  bird  that  haunts  the  grove, 

And  sings  in  every  tree, 
Should  join  me  in  my  song  of  love, 
Great  Nature's  God  !— to  Thee. 


101 


SONG. 


I'll  love  thee,   while   the   morning  sun 
In   glory   lights   the   eastern   sky  ; 

And   on  his   daily   round  doth    run 
In  never  ending  majesty. 

I'll   love   thee,   while   the   holy   light 

Of  night's  pale   Queen   doth  sweetly  shine, 

And  cheering  up   the   gloom   of  night, 
Gives   to  the   world  her  smiles   divine. 

I'll   love   thee,  while  the   wild-flowers  bloom 
On   mountain    side  or   lowland   lea, 

Or  dew-drops   drink  the   rich  perfume 
That  tempts   the   roving  honey  bee. 

I'll  love  thee,   while   the   gentle  rill 

Shall   tremble   'neath   the   moonbeams  ray, 

And  stealing   slowly  round  the  hill, 
Shall  wander  on  its   winding    way, 
9* 


102  SONG. 

I'll  love  thee,  while  one  tuneful  note 

Shall  charm  us  from  the  greenwood  choir, 

Or  the  light  breeze  shall  freely  float, 
That  wakes  my  own  ^Eolian  Lyre. 

My  love   is  pure,    'tis  endless   love  ! 

'Twill  droop   not   tho'  in   death  I  lie, 
For  it  was   sent  from   Heaven  above, 

And  my  heart   shrin'd  the   legacy. 


103 


THE  BEE  AND   THE  ROSE  TREE 


A   morning'  rose,  just   ope'd  in  bloom, 

Hung   on   its   parent   tree, 
A  dew   drop   drank  its  rich  perfume, 

And  wanton'd  with    a  bee. 

The  bee   hung  playful  round   the   flower, 
And   kiss'd   its   honey'd    sweets, 

Then  rested   in  the   roseate  bower, 
Within   its   cool   retreats. 

Within   the   bower  a   songster's   nest 

Was   built  with   every   care, 
And  in  its   shade   the   bee   did  rest 

Its   weary   winglets   there. 

It  humm'd    its   song  in   gladsome   glee, 
Nor  thought   of  danger  near, 

Poor  thoughtless,   silly,   wanton    bee, 
It  never   drempt   of  fear. 

The  mother   bird  !    her  lightning  eye 

Is   fiercely   fix'd   on  you  ; 
Haste,   let   your  little   winglets   fly, 

And   bid   the   bower  adieu. 


104   THE  BEE  AND  THE  ROSE  TREE. 

You've   dallied  long,   too  long   from  home. 

Within   the  bowers   of  ease  ; 
Why  did  you  ever,   ever  come 

To   seek  the   rose-thorn  trees  ? 

For  thorns   there   are   amid  the   flowers, 

Amid  the  honey'd   dew, 
And  you  may  rue   the   morning  hours, 

When  to   their   sweets  you   flew. 

That  bird  so   hidden  out   of  sight ; 

Beware  !    oh  bee, — beware  ! — 
You're   gone, — alas   too   late's  your   flight  ! 

That  Rose   tree   was   your   snare. 


105 


See   yonder   little   glittering  gem, 

That   trembles   on   the  wild  rose  thorn ; 
Last  night   it  left  its   home   on  high, 

To   give  its   lustre   to   the  morn. 
No   diamond   of  the   purest  kind, 

Ere   gave   to   earth  a  ray  more   bright; 
No   gem  on   nature's  diadem, 

Ere   spread  a  more   resplendent  light. 

Don't  touch   it,   'tis   an  angel's   gift, 

And  last  night  with   the   stars  did  roam ; 
'Twill   soon  be   claim'd   and   borne   away, 

To   shine  in   beauty  in   its   home. 
'Twill   linger  here   a   little   while, 

But  for  a  little  while   'tis   given, 
And   then   some   zephyr  passing  by, 

Will  waft  it   to  its   native   Heaven. 

'Tis  much   too   pure  for   this   our  world, 
It   trembles   'neath   the   gaze  of  day ; 

It  can't   endure   the   glare   of  noon, 
'Tis  now  in  haste   to   be   away. 


106  THE      DEW      DROP. 

Go,  little  gem,   go  to   thy  home, 
Go   to   thy  native   home   in   Heaven; 

Rest   on  some  brow  of  glory  there, 
To  us  but  little  while   thou'rt  given. 


107 


LINES    WRITTEN    ON    PASSING 
ASSAWAMSET    POND. 


How  beautiful,   how  like   some   fairy  dream, 
The   Assawamset's   sun-lit  waters   seem ; 
They   seem   enchanted,   and  like  mirror  bright, 
Reflect   her   woody  banks   in  ev'ry  light; 
While   o'er   her  bosom   the  wild  wood-duck  glides, 
To    seek   its   nest  upon   her   bushy  sides. 
But   oh !   how   chang'd  the   scene   beside  this  lake, 
How   does  the   present  hour  my  mem'ry  wake  ? 
For   years  ago,   with   one   that's   now   no  more, 
We   found   a  pathway   round   this  winding   shore  ; 
And   'mid   this   woodland  scene   we  linger'd  long, 
Cheer'd   on   our   way  by   many   a  warbler's   song. 
It  was   near  sunset,   and  the   horizon  west 
In   crimson   glow'd,   in  radiant  glory  dress'd; 
The   God   of  Day  his   circle   nigh   run   o'er, 
Was  just   then   leaving   for  another   shore; 
But   seem'd   to  linger   on  his   beaten   way, 
And   lengthen'd   out   the   last   remains   of  day. 
It  is  remember'd   well, — the   path   I   see, — 
While   fast   comes   rushing   on   my   memory, 
Each   word,   each   look,   as   slowly  on   we   stray'd, 
Thro'  the  wild   copse    wood   and  the   hazle  shade ; 


108  ASSAWAMSET      POND. 

That  smile,  that  look,   oh !   'tis   remember'd  well, 
It  casts   around   the   scene   a   mournful   spell  ; 
'Tis  graven   deep,   in  characters   that  ne'er 
Time   can  efface — my  heart,   'tis   graven  here. 

Hours   pass'd  away  beside   the  silver   flood, 
And   still  we   linger'd   'neath   the   shady  wood ; 
With   eyes  oft  bent  on  yonder   islet  gay, 
That   on   the   unruffled   waters   seems   to   lay, 
Like   infant   sleeping   on   its  mother's  breast, 
So   calm,   so  peaceful,   is   its   endless   rest ; 
'Tis   like   the   fairy   isle,   which   poets   sing, 
Array'd   forever  in   its   robe  of  spring. 
How  beautiful   'tis   seen  this   morning  bright, 
How  graceful   in   its   foliage   green   and  light, 
As  plain   reflected   in   the  liquid   green, 
The   lovely  isle   enchantingly   is   seen. 
And  high   in   air,   the   cedar  boughs   among, 
The   robin   warbles   forth  his  morning   song ; 
Just   so   it   was,  the   eve   of  which   I   tell, 
Just   so   it  was,   the   time's   remember'd  well, 
'Tis  well   remember'd. — But  yon   ancient  tree, 
Say,  can  it  be   the   same   that   I   now  see? 
Where   is  the   roof  that   once   it  shadow'd  o'er, 
That   years   had   stood  on   Assawamset's   shore, 
Sheltered  by   those  broad  arms  that  wave  on  high, 
Their   graceful  branches   to   the   deep   blue   sky  ? 


ASSAWAMSET      POND.  109 

And   where's   the  ancient  hearth-stone  that  once  laid 
Beneath  the  roof  once   shelter'd  by  its  shade, 
That  ancient  roof  in  moss   and   lichens   dress'd, 
Where   oft   the   house  wren  built  its  little  nest, 
And   rear'd   its   young,   and  sung  its   song  in  glee, 
High   in  those  boughs   at   morn   so   merrily. 
And   where's    the  inmates   of  that   ancient   home  ! — 
Some   sleep   in   death,   those  left,  ne'er  hither  come 
For   that   old   mansion's   mossy   roof  no  more, 
Arises   there,   its   day   has   long  pass'd   o'er, 
And    'neath   the   shade   of  that   wide  spreading  tree, 
New  walls   are   rear'd,   both   fresh   and  fair  to  see, 
But   oh!    they  tell   no   tale   of  days   gone  by, 
Of  days   to   which  my  mind   oft  loves   to   fly. 

Oh   scenes   long  past,    why   linger  round  me   so, 
Sad   are   the   thoughts   you  bring,  but  no,  oh !    no, 
I   would   not   that   it   otherwise   should    be, 
Tho'   the   salt  tear  they   ofttimes   bring  to   me. 
'Tis   mournful   pleasure    that   I   frequent   find, 
In   those   lock'd  treasures   of  my  careful   mind; 
I   meet   them   often,   and   like   miser's   gold, 
I   treasure   them,  their   price   cannot  be   told, 
And   it   so  happens,   when   some   spot   is  seen, 
If  some   lost  loved   one  by  my  side   has  been, 
That   Fancy's   pencil   paints  it   o'er   again, 
And   pleasure   mingles   with   a  draught   of  pain, 
10 


110  ASSAWAMSET       FOND. 

Yet,  dearly   do   I  treasure  by-gone  days, 
And  many  a  scene   like   Assawamset   sways 
Its  sceptre   o'er  me,  and  the   tears   oft  find 
Their  way  adown  my  cheek,  but  from  my   mind 
I   would  not  chase  them,   for  they  are   a  part 
Of  my  existence,   twin'd  around  my  heart. 


Ill 


THE    LOST    PLEIAD. 

One  summer's  morn  I  had  a  dream, 

'Tis   now  before  my  eyes ; 
I   see  it   on  my  vision  beam, 

So  angry  were   the  skies. 

I  dreampt   that  on   ethereal  wing, 

Among  the   stars   I   flew, 
And  heard  the  glorious   Pleiades   sing 

Their  anthem  ever  new. 

I   heard  the   radiant  sister  band, 

The   high  immortal  seven, 
Chant  forth   the   glories   of  that  hand 

That  hung  them  in  high   Heaven. 

I   heard   the  sisters,  bright  and  fair, 

Join   in  the   choral   song, 
As   I  upon  my  wings  of  air 

Wander'd  the   stars   among. 

I   saw  one   of  that  band,   so  dear, 

Fall   from  her   stand   above, 
Drawn   from  her  high  and  glorious   sphere 

By  the  bland   smiles   of  Love. 


112  THE      LOST      PLEIAD. 

I   saw   the   high  born   Pleiad   fall; 

Her  love   to  mortal  given ; 
I   heard   the   sister   Pleiades   call, 

To   Avin   her   back   to   Heaven. 

nrflo'if)   a   br.A   I    • 
In   solemn  cadence   o'er  my  head 

The   mournful   anthem   rung, 

"  A  star   is   dim'd,   its   lustre   fled," 

TIT        i          -iii          .e-aiii 

Was   the   wild   theme   they   sung. 

,,,.,,,       .  ti  r\         c  i  * 

Wildly   they  sung,   "  One   of  our  choir 

Has   left,  behold  her  fly ! 

Her   love,   fed   by  a   deathless   fire, 
j 

•HIT  11  1.1 

Mortal  has   dar'd  to   try." 

*Jr 

"  A  star  has   fled,"  rung  through  high   Heaven, 

And   fast   the  sable  clouds 
Curl'd  round   the   six,  that   once   were   seven, 

And  wreath'd   them   in  black   shrouds. 

Jove  spoke  in  thunder,   as   he  roll'd 

His   chariot  through    the   sky, 
That  mortal  man  should  be   so  bold, 

As  cast  his   love  so   high. 

In   anger   dread  the   thunderer  hurl'd 
His  bolts  from   Heaven,   and   spake  ! 

His   voice,   re-echoing,   shook   the   world, 
And  caused  me   to  awake. 


113 


THE    STREAMLET. 


Bright  ran   the  little   streamlet, 

Slow  winding  through  the   green; 

The  setting  sun   oft  lit  it, 

With  his   last  parting  beam. 

His   golden  eye   look'd  on   it, 
And   linger'd  round   it   long ; 

And   as   he  smil'd   upon   it, 

The  eve  bird   sung  its   song. 

Beside  it  bloom'd  the  wild  rose, 
And  kiss'd  its  silver  tide ; 

And  ofttimes  I  at  the  day  close, 
Would  wander  by  its  side. 

And   there  the   spring's   young  violet, 
First   shed   its   rich  perfume ; 

And   there   the   daisy  first  we   met, 
On   its   lowly  bed   in  bloom. 

A   mossy  rock  stood  near  it, 

And  long  it  there  had  stood; 

Time's  hand  had  ne'er  dar'd  it; 
Tho'  form'd  before   the  flood. 
10* 


114  THE      STREAMLET. 

Close    by   the   rock   was   growing, 

A   lofty   sycamore ; 
And,   as   if  protecting,   throwing, 

Its   giant   branches   o'er. 

How   often   there   I've   listen'd, 

The   mournful   whip-poor-will ; 

Till    night's   dews   round   me   glisten'd, 
And   wet   the   ruin'd   mill. 

The  waters  murmur'd  over, 
The  mossy  broken  dam  ; 

And,  of  the  scene  a  lover, 

Was  many  a  snow  white  lamb; 

Their   mothers    too   were   lying, 
Beneath   the   spreading   tree ; 

How  can   I   help   but   sighing, 

O'er   those   scenes  of  infancy  ? 

I've   thought  how   oft  there    slumber'd, 
The  forest   king   of  old ; 

Whose  race  no   more   is   number'd, 
Or   with   the   living   told. 

I've  thought  how  oft  the  arrow, 
Has  there  been  seen  to  glide  ; 

And  could  not  help  but  sorrow, 
O'er  the  ancient  forest  pride. 


THE      STREAMLET.  115 


And  now  that  stream  is  mangled, 
Its  charms  no  more  are  seen ; 

And  no  more  grows  the  tangled 
Wild  rose  upon  the  green. 

The  playful  lambs  have  vanish'd, 
Their  mothers  too  have  gone  ; 

The  streamlet's  beauty's  banish'd, 
And  I  must  sigh  alone. 

None  heeds  me  as  I'm  sighing, 
None  looks  as  I  now  look  ; 

On    ev'ry   charm   fast   flying, 

From   the   little   winding  brook. 

And  there  no  more  at  night  fall, 
Sings  the  sweet  whip-poor-will ; 

Me   to   its   lov'd   haunts   to   call, 
But  all   is   hush'd   and   still. 

The  tree  that  tower'd  so  stately, 
Beside  the  little  stream ; 

I   saw  upon  it   lately, 

The   bright   axe   wildly  gleam. 

The   rock ! — the   rock  is   riven, 
I   saw   it   thundering   fly ; 

In   fragments   it  was   driven, 

Far   toward  the   sunny   sky. 


116  THE      STREAMLET. 

And  here   alone   I   sorrow, 

As   wandering   in  the   green  ; 

I'll   not   again   to-morrow, 

Look  on   the   once   loved   scene. 

I'll   leave,   I'll   leave   it   ever, 

I'll  wander   there   no   more ; 

'Twill   give   me   pleasure   never, 
Its   native   charms   are   o'er. 


117 


THE    TROUBADOUR. 


The   troubadour's   singing  !   Jacintha,   come  down  \ 
He's   singing  an   air  that  I   once   call'd  my   own; 
Jacintha !   Jacintha !   come   bring  my   guitar ; 
I'll  join  him,   while   singing,    I'll  join   in   the   air. 
It   is   mine,   it  is   mine,   and   it   wafts  me   again 
To   the   romantic  hills   of  my   own   native    Spain. 
The   Troubadour's   singing,   Jacintha,   come   down ! 
And   bring  my  guitar,   for   the   air  is   my  own  ! 

The   Troubadour   sung   of  a   far   distant   river ; 
He  sung   of  the   banks   of  the   blue  Guadalquivir; 
He   sung   of  a  maid,    with   her  dark   eyes   of  love 
Bent   low   on   the   ground,   in   a   Castilian   grove  ; 
And  he   sung   of  a   minstrel  who   came   from  afar, 
From   the   vine-cover'd  hills   of  the  sunny  Naverre  ; 
He    sung   the    home    air  that  forever   endears, 
And   Cath'rine   of  Arragon   melted  in   tears. 

Queen   Cath'rine  sat   in   her  own   lattic'd  bower ; 
Was  dreaming,  was  fearing  that  come  had  the  hour, 
When   she  was  no   longer   a   queen   o'er   the  heart 
Of  him   that   she   loved,   and  the  salt  tear  did  start ; 


118  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

When  the  Troubadour's  notes  struck  her  now  lone 
ly  ear, 

And   she   wept,   as   she  listen'd  the   music   to   hear, 

When  she  says  to  Jacintha,  "  Come,  bring  my 
guitar, 

I'll  join  him   while  playing  the   dearly  loved   air." 

Of  a  king's   fickle   love   now   the  Troubadour  sung, 
And  she  sunk   on   her  couch,   as   the  lattic'd  bower 

rung  ; 

She   sunk   on   her  couch,   as   the   truth   did  unfold ; 
'Twas    the    Troubadour,    trembling,    the    story    now 

told, 
That   another   fair   queen   was    on    England's    proud 

throne, 

And   Cath'rine   of  Arragon   now  is   alone. 
She   says   to   Jacintha,   "  Come,   take   my  guitar, 
I   cannot  play   longer   the   music   so   dear." 

The   Troubadour  sigh'd,  as  he  play'd  o'er  and  o'er 
The    airs    that    he     brought    from    his    own    native 

shore ; 

His   tears   they  fell  fast,   at  length  Cath'rine  knew 
It  was  one  that  had  lov'd  her ;   she  wav'd  an  adieu. 
She   wav'd   an   adieu,  yet  she  linger'd   again 
To   listen   awhile   to   the   music  of  Spain; 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  119 

For   it  brought  back   the   day,    when    her    heart    it 

was   free 
From   sorrow  or  care,  as  an  infant's   can  be. 

She  now  left  the  bower,  but  she  wav'd  an  adieu, 
For  she  knew  it  was  one  that  had  ever  prov'd  true; 
She  knew  it  was  one  who  had  loved  her  too  well, 
Who  had  wandered  so  far  her  sad  story  to  tell; 
For  it  was  the  same  air,  'twas  the  same  tender  song 
They  had  oft  sung  together,  while  wandering  among 
The  groves  and  the  bowers  of  her  own  native 

Spain, 
When  her  now  throbbing  bosom  was   free  from  all 

pain. 

It  was  one  that  had  dared  at  her  feet  once  to  kneel, 
Who   had  wander'd   so   far  his   devotion   to"  seal ; 
For  his   once  boyish   love   he   had   ever   a  care, 
And   Cath'rine   of  Arragon  e'er   had   his   prayer. 
It  was   one   that  had   dar'd   once    to    kneel    at    her 

feet, 

To  whisper  of  love,   and  to   quickly  retreat; 
And  he   wept  for  her  fate,  at  whose   feet  he   once 

kneel'd, 
For   Cath'rine   of  Arragon's   doom  was  then  seal'd. 


120 


THE    BOUQUET. 

I  would  not  give  this  sweet  Bouquet, 
That  in  the  woodlands  grew, 

For  one  more  rich  and  far  more  gay 
That  garden  bowers  once  knew. 

I   would   not   give   it,   for  his   hand 
Plac'd   these  fair   flowers   in   mine  ; 

And   his   voice   whisper'd   this   command, 
They   round  my  brows   should  twine. 

To-night  within   the   festive   hall, 
His   hand  and  mine   will   meet  ; 

For  we  are  bidden   to  the   ball, 
The   village   youth   to   greet. 

And   he   shall   see   the   flowers   he   gave, 
Twin'd  with   my  raven   hair  ; 

And   this  pure  lily   free   shall   wave, 
In   native   beauty   there. 

I   have  a  hope,    'tis   budding  bright, 

'Twill   open   soon   in   day  ; 
Come  on,  ye  welcome   shades   of  night, 

And   doubt   flee   fast   away. 


121 


STANZAS    TO    A    CHILD 


Happy   child,   where   have   you  been, 
Dancing  over   the   fields   so   green  ? 
Wild  flowers   twining   with  your  hair  ; 
Blooming   like  yourself  so   fair ; 
And  your  sparkling   eyes   so   bright, 
Glowing  like   the   gems  of  night. 

Happy   child,   ay,   child  of  glee, 
Spirit   of  light  you  are   to  me. 
You  are   the  life   of  your  happy  home; 
Joy   comes   with  you,  when  you  come. 
Homeward  go,   like   the   bounding  doe, 
Joy   goes   with   you  as   you  go. 

You   are   the  light  of  your  parents'  eyes  ; 
You're   their  all  below  the   skies. 
May  you  ever,  ever  prove 
Worthy   of  their   fondest  love. 
May  the  precious  trust  them  given 
Prove   their  richest  boon  from  Heaven. 
11 


122  STANZAS      TO      A      CHILD. 

Vender's  your  home,  embowered  in  trees, 
Gently  fann'd  by  the   evening  breeze  ; 
There   where  the   winding  stream   runs   by, 
There  is  your  home,  and  hie,   child,  hie. 
Hasten,  happy,   happy  child  ; 
Gather  your  roses   for   they're   wild. 

Gather,   and  press   them   close  to  your  heart ; 
To-morrow  you   and  their  sweets   must  part ; 
To-morrow  all   their  charms  will  fade  ; 
Low  their  beauty   will  be   laid. 
Little   you   think   'tis   an   emblem   true 
Of  the   fate   that  is  wove  for  you. 

Little  you  think,   as  you   dance  with  joy, 
Time   will   all  your  charms   destroy. 
You  must  wither,   droop   and  die ; 
On  the  ground  must  your  beauty  lie. 
Happy   child,   with  your  step  so   free ; 
Surely,   surely,  the   time  must  be. 

The  rose  is  the  emblem  of  your  doom  ; 

So   must  fade   your  beauty's  bloom. 

Time   is  ever   on  rapid   wing; 

Soon,  too  soon,   the  hour  he'll  bring. 

Then  again  with   another  hour, 

When   you  will  rise  an  immortal  flower. 


123 


THE    IRISH    MAIDEN'S    LAMENT. 

Oh,  take  me  to  my  island  home,  oh,  take  me  o'er 

the  sea  ; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  island  home  ;   this  is  no  home 

for  me. 
'Tis   not  my  own  sweet  Erin,  where  the  shamrock, 

ever  green, 
Arising  from  thy  sainted  soil,  to  cheer  the  eye,  is 

seen. 
Oh,  Erin  dear,  my  island  home,  could  I  but  hope 

once  more 
That  I  should  wander  o'er  the  hills,  that  rise  upon 

thy  shore, 
I'd  gladly  toil  from  morn   till    eve,    nor    think   my 

task  was   hard, 
If  but  the   sight  of  those   green  hills  would  be  the 

blest   reward. 
Altho'   oppression  with  her  scourge  stalks  freely  o'er 

thy   land, 
And,  following  on,  her  wretched  train  are  seen  there 

hand   in   hand, 
This   does  but  make  me   love  thee  more,    my  own 

dear  island  home. 
For  thee  my  daily  prayer  shall  rise,  tho'  far  away 

I  roam. 


124    THE    IRISH    MAIDEN'S    LAMENT. 

If  I   could  but  forget  tliee,   I   yet  might  happy  be 
Beneath   these   forests  towering    high,    beside    these 

rills  so  free  ; 
For  o'er  this  highly  favored  land  are  many  treasures 

pour'd, 
And  Plenty,   with  her  golden  horn,   sits   smiling  at 

each  board  ; 

But,  Ireland,  dear  Ireland,  thou  art  more  dear  by  far ; 
My  every   thought  is   turn'd  to   thee    by    memory's 

guiding  star. 

I  must  return,  I  cannot  stay  upon  the  stranger  land, 
Tho'  crush'd  and  humbled  in   the  dust  thy  hapless 

offspring  stand. 

I  must  return,  I  cannot  stay,  for  there  my  parents  rest ; 
And  let  me  sleep   my  last  long    sleep   upon  green 

Erin's  breast ; 
And    let    my  kindred    close    my    eyes,    and    Erin's 

daughters   dear 
Gather  wild  flowers  from  off  her  hills  to  strew  upon 

my  bier. 
Those  hills,  those  gently  swelling  hills,  that  rose  so 

green   and  high, 
From  out  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  when  last  they  met 

my  eye, 
I   almost  think   I  see    them    now  as    they  vanish'd 

from  my   view, 
When,  with  aching  heart   and  tearful  eye,  I  waved 

a   last   adieu. 


THE   IRISH   MAIDEN'S   LAMENT.    125 

Oh!    had  I   but    yon    eagle's    wings,    how   quickly 

I  would  haste 
Across  the  broad  Atlantic  main,  far  o'er  the  briny 

waste, 
And  on  thy  dear,    thy  sainted    soil,    pour    out  my 

warmest  prayer 
To  Mary  Mother,  who  has    deign'd    to    guard    me 

from  each   snare. 
Yes,  Erin  dear,  my  native  land,    my  prayer   shall 

be   for  thee; 
May  our  lov'd  queen  but  smile  on    thee,   and  say 

that  thou  art  free  j 
May  she  grant  my  prayer,  and  many  a  heart  shall 

bless  the   happy  day 
That  hail'd  as  queen  of   the    sister    Isles    the  fair 

Victoria. 


11* 


126 


A    DIRGE    IS    SINGING. 


A   dirge,   a  dirge   is  singing,  — 

In   strains   how   soft  and  low  ! 
Flowers   the  young  are   bringing 

Upon  the  bier  to  strow, 
Buds  from  the   rose   tree, 

Gather'd   fresh   this  morn, 
Leaves   round  them   hanging, 

Stript  of  every   thorn  ; 
Strew  them,   come   strew  them, 

The   sweetest   ones  bring; 
'Tis   a  budding  infant 

Just   nipt   in   its  spring. 


A   dirge,   a  dirge   is   singing,  — 

Again  it  meets   the   ear  ! 
Again  a  soul  is   winging 

To  brighter   worlds   than  here; 
Lilies   are  just  gathered, 

The   fairest  of  the   fair; 
Strew  them,  come   strew   them, 

O'er  the  maiden   sleeping  there. 


A      DIRGE      IS      SINGING.  127 

She   was   a  flower,   the   fairest  ; 

She   bloom'd  but  for   the   tomb, 
Gathered  by   the   hand  of  love 

In  brighter  worlds   to   bloom. 
#####*###* 

A  dirge,   a  dirge   is  singing,  — 

It  lingers   round  the  bell, 
Whose   iron  tongue   is   ringing 

Some   spirit's   parting  knell  ; 
Flowers,   yes,   fresh   flowers, 

Of  every   scent  and  hue, 
Are   gathered    from   their  bowers, 

With  petals   bath'd  in   dew  ; 
For   'twas   a  much   loved  mother 

In   Autumn's   glory  crown'd  ; 
Let   tears   of  love   fall  round  her  ; 

'Tis   her  that   death   has   found. 


A   dirge,  a   dirge   is   singing  ;  — 

Again   'tis    on   the  air  ; 
The   knell   of  death   is   ringing, 

Not  for  the   young   and   fair. 
No   flowers   for  the   aged 

Can   be   gathered  from  the  snow  : 
They   are   wither'd,   they  are  blasted 

In   their  frozen   beds   below. 


128  A      DIRGE      IS      SINGING. 

It   is   an  aged   matron, 

With  all  her   virtues   here, 

Whose   spirit  has   departed 
For  a  far  better  sphere. 


129 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SHIP, 


My  home   is   on  the  briny  deep, 

My   white   sails   catch   each  passing  breeze, 
And,   as   they   freely  round   me   sweep, 

I  feel   my  home   is  on   the   seas. 

And  well  I  love  my  briny  home, 

And  well  I  love  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  well  I  love  the  snowy  foam 
That  rises,  as  the  waters  flow. 

And  well  I  love  the  gentle  sighs 

Of  winds  that  scarcely  wake  from  sleep, 

When  ocean  scarcely  ruffled  lies, 

And  sea  maids  round  me  wail  and  weep. 

The   briny   deep   it   is  my  home, 
And   I   am   truly   Neptune's   child ; 

My  cradle  was  the  ocean's  foam, 
And  at  my  birth  the  sea  god  smil'd. 

The   sun  has   sought  his   ocean  bed, 
And   Cynthia   deigns   to   smile   on   me, 

Her   silver  beams  are  round  me   spread, 
To  light  me  o'er   the   deep  blue  sea. 


130  THE      SONG      OF      THE      SHIP 

The  wind  blows  fresh,  the  tide  runs  fair, 
And  hearts  on  board  are  beating  light ; 

They  pant  to  breathe   the  mountain  air, 
And  scale  the  Alps'  proud  dizzy  height. 

But  listen !    'tis   the   seamaid's  song ; 

She  dwells  within  the  caves  below ; 
'Tis   in  these   seas   she   does  belong ; 

Her  song  it  tokens   coming  woe. 

And   she   has   left  her  coral  caves. 

Listen  how  sweet  the   soft  notes  swell  ! 
They  linger  now  upon   the  waves  ; 

The   sailor's   dirge   she   sings   too   well. 

She  ever  sings  her  sweetest  song, 
And  charms  the  spirits  of  the  deep, 

When  ocean's  gallant  sons  among 
Her  coral  caves  go  down  to  sleep. 

And   then  how  sweetly  she  will   sing, 
To   call  him  to   her   home   below ! 

How  wild  the   ocean-echoes   ring, 
When   she   invites  him  there  to  go. 

Now,  sailor,   sailor,   on   the   sea, 

She  calls   to  you,   your  time   is   come  ; 

Prepare  to  go ;  'tis  she ;  'tis  she ; 
She  calls  you  to  her  ocean  home. 


131 


THE    SAILOR    BOY'S    DIRGE. 


"  Come   down  to   my  coral  caves  ; 

Come   under   the   deep  blue   sea ; 
As   the  moonbeams   dance   on   the  rippling  waves ; 

Come,  dwell  in   the   deep  with  me. 

I've   a  bed,   where   you   shall  sleep, 

'Mong  groves   and  coral  bowers, 
And  a  watchful   eye   I   will   over  you  keep, 

As  you  rest   among  sea-wash'd  flowers. 

Pearls  shall   glitter  around   your  bed, 

And  shells,   of  the   brightest  hue, 
Around  you   with  careful  hand   I   will  spread, 

And  I'll  weave   a  sea- wreath  for  you. 

I've  been   to   the   Western   Isles, 

I've  been   to   the  Indian   seas, 
I've  been  where   the   summer  is  ever  in  smiles ; 

I've   treasures  I   know  that   will  please. 

'Twas  for  you   I  wander'd   so   far ; 

For  you   a   sea-wreath   shall  be   wove ; 
It  shall  beam   like  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star, 

And  adorn   the   fair  brow  of  my  love." 


132  THE      SAILOR      BOY5S      DIRGE. 

On  his  hammock   the   sailor  boy  lay ; 

No  friend  smooth'd  the   pillow  of  death  ; 
He  was   doom'd  ne'er  again  to  behold  the  fair  day, 

And  he   gave   to   the  winds   his  last  breath. 

The  sailor   boy  breath'd  his  last  sighs, 
As  he   heard  the   sea  maiden's  song, 

And  low  on   a  rock-bed  of  coral  he   lies, 
Where   the   billows   roll   slowly  along. 

And  long  will   the   sailor  boy  rest, 
And  the  childless   widow   will  mourn; 

No  more  will  she  clasp  her  bright  boy  to  her  breast, 
And  rejoice   at  his   welcome  return. 

A   song  oft  comes   over   the   waves 
From  over   the  wide   spreading  bay; 

'Tis    the    sea   maid    that   sings    in    her    deep    coral 

caves, 
That   guards   that  bright  boy  night  and   day. 

His  body  is   under   her  care, 

But  his   spirit's  in  Heaven   above  ; 
His   mother  will  meet  her  dear  sailor  boy  there, 

And  with   him  dwell  in  glory   and  love. 


133 


EVENING    MUSINGS. 


A   calm   is   o'er   creation    spread ; 

The   pensive   twilight   steals   around  ; 
The  murmur   of  the   waves  is  fled ; 

All  nature   sleeps   profound  ! 

'Tis   evening,   and   the   golden   sun 
No   more   lights   up  the   yellow   lea ; 

His   task  is   done,   his  round   is   run, 
He's   sunk  beyond   the   sea. 

But   yonder   comes   night's   silver  orb ; 

Slowly   she  climbs   the   eastern   sky, 
And   spreads   her   trembling  rays   abroad 

O'er  glens   and   mountains   high. 

Accushnet's  waters  sparkle  bright, 

And  seem  to  smile  beneath  her  beams ; 

The  mild  refulgence  of  her  light 
Is  seen  in  liquid  gleams. 

The  morning  sun,  in  glory  crown'd, 

Looks   proudly   down  on   hill   and  plain, 

And,   as  he   glances  o'er  the  ground, 
Calls  man  to  toil  again ; 
12 


134  EVENING      MUSINGS. 

But  thou,   fair   orb,  invit'st  to   rest, 
Best   to   the   weary   child   of  woe  ; 

Invit'st  the   songster  to  his  nest, 
Whose   song  doth   all   day  flow. 

I  love   the   calm  repose   of  night  ; 

To   me   'tis   dearer   than  the   day; 
For,   then  my  soul   oft  takes   its   flight 

To  realms   far  —  far  away. 


But  look,   a  fiery  flash   is   seen 
To   glance   athwart   the   skies   afar  ! 

'Tis   gone,  —  as   if  it   ne'er  had   been  ; 
'Tis   call'd   a   fallen   star. 

Where   has   it   fallen  ?    on  what   shore  ? 

Or   does   it   'mid   the   ocean   rest  ? 
'Tis   gone,   alas  !    and   never  more 

Will   shine   in   glory   drest. 

There's   music   stealing   o'er   the  tide  ! 

It   comes  from   yonder   distant  sail. 
How   softly,   sweetly  doth   it    glide 

Along  the   moonlit   vale  ! 

And  now,   it   lingers  on   the   air, 
And  now,   it   gently,   gently   dies  ! 

'Tis  gone  !  —  its   guardian   spirit   fair 
Has  borne   it   to   the   skies. 


EVENING      MUSINGS.  135 

And   now,   for  me   the   deep  ton'd  bell 
Proclaims  I   must   no   longer  stay 

In  haunts,  where  I   do   love   so  well 
To   wile   the   hours   away. 

Farewell !    awhile,  ye   much  loved   shades ; 

I  leave   you  now,   altho'  I   still 
Would  linger  long;    but  yon  orb  fades, 

And  no  more  lights   the  hill. 


a 


136 
;'  ;   :.,v.    >t!l 


THE    HUNTED    DEER. 


Hark  !   hark,  through  the  woodland  the  loud  echoes 

tell 

That   the   hounds   and   the   huntsmen   are   near  ! 
Fly    quickly,    ah   fly  ;    they   have    mark'd    thee    too 

well  : 

Hie  over  the  brake   and  the   wild  heather  bell, 
Thou   pride   of  the   wood,  —  mountain   deer. 

O'er  hill  and  o'er  dale>   at  the  break   of  the  day* 

They  brush   o'er   the   bright  morning   dew; 
Yes,   the   hunters   and   hounds   with   their  spirits  so 


With  the  horn's  mellow  notes,  winding  slowly  away  *• 
But  thy  life's  blood  it  is   they've  in  view. 

Fly   quickly,  oh  fly;    for   that  bold  antler'd  brow 

So  noble,   must   not  fall   to-day  ; 
Haste,  haste   o'er    the    mountain,    brave    quadruped^ 

now, 
Through   the   dark  denser  forest  and  vallies  below, 

Away,  for  thy  safety,  away  ! 


THE      HUNTED      DEER.  137 

Be   fleet  as   the   arrow,   fly,  foes   are  behind, 

And  fast   are   thy   footsteps  pursuing ; 
Already  they  see   thee  laid  low,   in  their   mind, 
Already   the  bugler  has   set  up  his  wind, 
The   prelude,  poor  stag,   of  thy  ruin. 

But  hark!  through  the  forest  the  wild  duck's  scream 

Tells   the   winding  river   is   near ; 
See   through  the  tall  trees  the  bright  waters  gleam  ; 
Thou  soon   wilt  escape   them,   and  over  the   stream 

Will    surely  have  nothing  to   fear. 

We   behold   thee  in  safety,  the  bank  thou  hast  won, 
Noble  creature,   thou   diest   not   to-day. 

Ye  sportsmen  away,   for  your  pleasure   is   done ; 

The  chase   it  is   clos'd   with  the  rise   of  the   sun ; 
Away !   from   the  woodland,  away. 


12* 


138 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  AN  EAGLE  WINGING  ITS  WAY  MAJES 
TICALLY  THROUGH  THE  CLOUDS,  AT  NEEDHAM, 
JULY  23,  1838. 


Soar   on,   proud  bird,   through   yon   distant   cloud, 

That  so   gracefully   hangs   on   high, 
And   let   its   misty   folds   enshroud 

Your  pathway   through  the  sky. 

My  country's   emblem   true   you   are, 
And   the   highest   cliffs   are  your  home, 

And   the   winds   that   rock   your  cradle   there, 
Have   call'd  you   forth   to   roam. 

On   the   highest  pines   on   the   mountain's  brow 

Is  found  your   cradle   nest, 
And  the   angry  storms,  that  around   it  blow, 

Is   your  lullaby   song,   as   you   rest. 

Your   course  is   free,   and  your  distant  flight 

Is   scarcely   scann'd,   as   you   fly, 
And  you  look   on  our  world  from   your  dizzy  height 

With   a   proud,   and   a   scornful   eye ! 


LINES.  139 

O'er  the   forest  green,   o'er   the  spreading  lake, 

O'er  the  boundless   ocean's  tide, 
On  your  wide   spread  wings,  your  course  you  take, 

And  sail  with  a   monarch's   pride. 

My   country   claims   you,   noble  bird ; 

May   her  course  be   like   yours  forever ; 
And   as  long  as   freedom's   song  is   heard, 

May   the   sportsman  mark  you — never. 


140 


STANZAS. 


I   love   the   morn,   the   rosy  morn, 
When   dew   drops   tremble   on   the   thorn; 
When   fair   Aurora  rises   high, 
And   flings   her  garlands   from   the   sky, 
Ere   the   bright   morning   sun   appears, 
To   drive   away   night's   dewy  tears. 

But   dearer    is   this   evening  grey, 
Yes,   far  more   dear   than  glaring  day ; 
When  not   one   ripple   dares   to   break 
The   silver  surface   of  the   lake ; 
And    o'er   the   world   a   pensive   light, 
Is   spread,   by   Cynthia,   queen   of  night. 

I   love   to   hear   the   wild  birds   sing, 
Within   their  bowers   or  on   the   wing; 
The   morning  hours   I   dearly   love, 
As   on   their   rosy   round   they   move ; 
Cheer'd   as   they   are  by   many   a  song, 
I   love   them   as   they-  dance   along. 


STANZAS.  141 


But  dearer   is   this   eve   in   June, 
Lit   by   the   trembling  silver   moon, 
Who   seems   now   in   her   sober   flight, 
To   smile   upon   me   as   I  write, 
And   guides   my   soul   to   soar  above, 
To   revel  in  a   Saviour's   love. 


142 


THE    INDIAN    LOVER. 

Arise,  my  love,  and  we'll  away,   the   eagle  plumes 

his   feather ; 
We'll  seek  the  turtle  in  the  bush,  his  hiding  place 

is   there ; 
We'll  gather   from    the    black-brier    hedge    its  jetty 

fruit   together, 

And   I   will   twine   the   orchis   flowers   among  thy 
raven   hair. 

The   scarlet   crested   cardinal   blooms   in  the  marshy 

meadow, 
And   clustering  berries  in  the  wood  on  ev'ry  bush 

are   seen, 
The  lily  with   its  glossy  leaf  hangs  bending  o'er  its 

shadow ; 

Arise,   my   love,   and   we'll    away,    where    yonder 
woods   wave   green. 

I   hear  the   robin's    tuneful    note,    he's    on    the    old 

moss   willow ; 
He's   singing   now   his   morning   song,   where   eye 

can   see   him   not. 
Arise,   my   love,    the   sun   shines  bright,    and   leave 

thy   sweet-fern   pillow ; 
For  sure  it  cannot  be  to-day  our  journey  is  forgot. 


THE      INDIAN      LOVER.  143 

Where   the   broad   Allegany   wends    its   way  among 

the   mountains, 
We'll   rest  beside   the   giant   oaks  that  raise  their 

arms  so   high ; 

We'll  bathe  within  its  silver  tide,  and  drink  at  crys 
tal   fountains. 

Arise,  my  love,   for  many   a  song  rings   through 
the   azure   sky. 

Not   long  ago   I   rov'd    beside   the   big   deep   rolling 

waters,  • 
And  I   have   brought   a   gift  for    thee,    a    gift    of 

shells   most   rare ; 
I   brought  it  for  the  fairest   maid   'mong   Allegany 's 

daughters ; 

A   gift   of  pearls  and  rosy  shells  around  her  neck 
to   wear. 

Come   bind   thy  flowing  tresses  round  thy  brow  this 

morning   early, 
And  with   it  twine    the  laurel  wreath  I  gave  thee 

yesterday, 
Thy    forest    hunter    gather'd    it,    for    her    he    loves 

most   dearly  ; 

And  thou  wilt  wear  it  for  his   sake,  and    haste, 
and  be   away. 


144  THE      INDIAN      LOVER. 

The   nimble   footed  mountain  fawn  is  out  this  sunny 

morning, 

And   I   upon  the  mountain  top   first  hail'd  the  ris 
ing   sun ; 
And   there   I   saw   full   many  a  flower  the  mountain 

cliff  adorning. 

Arise,   my   love,   for   it  is   time   our   journey  was 
begun. 

I   see   the   bounding  light   canoe  swift   gliding  down 

the   river ; 

'Tis   time   that   we   were   far   away,   were   far   be 
yond  the  hill. 
A   brighter   sun,   a   fairer  morn,    I'm    sure    that   we 

can  never 

Expect   to   see,   and   sure   my  love   must  love  her 
hunter   still. 

It   is   thy   step,   it   is   thy   voice   I   hear   within    thy 

bower ; 
It   is   the   song   that  most   we  love  that  meets  my 

ravish'd   ear. 
Come,   for   thy  forest  hunter  waits,  it   is   the   chosen 

hour; 

Come    forth,    my    dark-eyed,    dusky   love  ;    don't 
linger   longer   here. 


145 


FRAGMENT. 


I   saw  within  her  eyes   the   tears, 

I  saw  her  bosom   swell  ; 
A  mother's   hopes,   a  mother's   fears 

What   tongue   can  ever   tell  ? 

Low   on  his   little   bed   of  pain 

The  infant   sufferer  lay ; 
The   mother  fear'd  her  prayer  was   vain, 

But  fervently   did  pray, 

With  eyes  bent  fondly  on  her  child, 
While   the   sweet  sufferer   slept ; 

Her  prayer   was   heard,   he   woke   and  smil'd, 
With  joy   the   mother  wept. 

And   soon   upon   his   dimpled  cheek 

Was   seen   the   rose's   hue ; 
His   first  words   were  his  thanks   to   speak : 

To   God  his  thanks  were  due. 


13 


146 


A    WINTER'S    NOON. 

The   sun   looks  down   from   his   golden   throne, 

With  his  bright   and  fiery   eye ; 
He   looks   at  the   icicles   one  by   one, 
They  glitter   too  bright   for   the   fiery  sun, 

As   he   sits   on  his   throne   on   high. 

He   sends   down   his  rays,   they  fall   to   the   ground, 

And  melt  in  a   flood   of  tears  ; 
Not  one   single   cord   of  that  fringe   is   found, 
That   so   gracefully   hung  on   the  eaves'  top  around, 

Not   one   cord   of  that   fringe  now  appears. 

'Tis   gone,   its  beauty   has   vanish'd   away, 
Like  the   dews   of  a  summer's   morn  ; 

How  it  glitter'd   and   glow'd    when  the    bright   god 
of  day 

First  look'd   on  its   beauty,   and   lent  his   first  ray, 
The  icicle   fringe   to  adorn. 

But  now  he   in  anger  looks   down   from  above, 

He   says   they've   too  long  been   abroad  ; 
He  throws   out  his   rays  in   anger,   not  love, 
For   the   torrents   of   tears  they  have    shed    do   not 

move 
The  heart  of  the   fiery   day-god. 


A     WINTER'S    NOON.  147 

He  sits   on   his   throne   with   a   sceptre   so  bright, 

That   never  has   mere   mortal  eye 
Had  power   to   gaze  on  that  great   fount  of  light, 
And   fathom   the   mystery  that   drives   away  night, 

And  makes   her   in   soberness   fly. 

The   snow   is   fast   melting,   is   gliding  away, 

Like   a  fairy  vision   it   goes  ; 

Beneath   the   fierce   gaze   of  the   sun   it  can't  stay, 
With  its  lily  white  mantle  throughout  the  whole  day, 

For   the  bright   day-god's   eye   on   it   glows. 

In    sorrow   the   poor   little   schoolboy  is   seen 

To  mourn   for   the   sport   he   has  lost ; 
He   looks   at   the   hill   side,   where   oft  he  has  been, 
On  the  clear  crusted  snow,  and  quite  happy,  I  ween, 
With   his   bright  ey'd  companions   to   coast. 

Ne'er  mind  it,  my  boy,  there  are  winter  days  more, 

And,   perhaps,   on  the   morrow  you  will 
With   your  light   little   sled  be   quick   gliding  o'er 
The   white   crusted   snow  by  your  own  cottage   door 
That   stands   at   the   foot  of  the  hill. 

The   day-god   will   rule,   be   it   warm  be  it  cold, 

On   each   rolling   day  of  the   year, 
His   favors  they   cannot  be   bought  or  be   sold, 
And  he'll  not  let  the  snow  tell  a  tale  that  is  old, 

Tho'   the   schoolboy  shed  many   a  tear. 


148  A     WINTER'S    NOON. 

The   monarch    of  day   he   rides  through  the    sky, 

And   frights   the   dark   shades  of  the  night ; 
He   makes   white   hair'd   winter   in   soberness   fly, 
When   spring  time   comes   round   and  away   he  will 

hie, 
With   the  aspect   of  one   in  affright. 

And  a   struggle   is   oft   on   the   ice-cover'd  plain 

When   they  meet   there  in   fatal   affray, 
Cold  winter  he   throws   out  his   bright  icy   chain, 
The  day-god  looks  down  and  he  melts  it  in  twain, 
And  at  length   drives  old  winter  away. 

When  he  throws  off  his  mantle  there's  many  a  tear 

Left  trembling  like   diamonds   so  bright, 
Yes,  many  a   dew-drop   is   seen   glitt'ring  here, 
To  adorn  nature's   diadem   throughout   the   year, 
And   light  up  the   dark  brow  of  night. 


149 

SUMMER    SHOWER, 

Welcome,   welcome,  summer   shower, 
O'er   the  earth   your   treasures   pour, 
Long   it   is    we've   pray'd   in  vain, 
For   the   cool  refreshing  rain, 
Welcome,   welcome,  summer   shower, 
Freely  round   your   treasures   pour. 

How  rejoiced   all   nature   seems, 
Even   the   little   winding  streams, 
As   they  kiss   the   pebbly   shore, 
Seem   to   thank  you   o'er  and  o'er ; 
Welcome,   welcome,   summer   shower, 
O'er   the   earth  your   treasures   pour. 

Every   songster   in   the   grove, 

Now  will   tune  its  note  to   love, 

Every   flower  of  every   die, 

Now   will   ope   its   beauteous   eye, 

Every   fish   within  the   lake, 

Seems   from   sleepy   dreams   to   wake, 

Every  tree   and  field   that  lay, 
Suffering  under   Sol's  bright  ray, 
Now   rejoicingly   is  seen, 
Putting   on   its   robe   of  green. 
Welcome,   welcome,   summer   shower, 
Freely  round  your  treasures  pour. 
13* 


150 


A    PICTURE. 


See   yon  little  rogue,  how  sly  he   is   creeping, 

On  mischief  he's   bent,   by   the   look   of  his  eye ; 
On  a  bank  of  sweet    flowers    his    young    sister    is 

sleeping, 

To   wake   her  he   means,   and  that  makes  him  so 
sly. 

'r«r •  • 

Young    rogue,    do    not    wake    her,    she    surely    is 

dreaming, 

She  dreams  she  is  now  in  some  bright  fairy  land  ; 
The   soft  eyes   of  fairies   upon  her   are   beaming, 
Now   don't  break   the   spell,    with    that    straw    in 
your  hand. 

Let  her   sleep  on,   she  will   soon   enough  Avaken, 
Soon,   soon  enough,  the  fair   vision   will   flee ; 

Then  she'll  mourn  o'er  the  loss,    as    she    sees   the 

leaves   shaken, 
That  hang   on   the  boughs  of  the  old  garden  tree. 

Let  her  sleep  on,  let  her  dream  the  dream  over, 
The  fairies  are  fanning  her  now  with  their  wings ; 

The  winds  bring  sweet  odors,  while  over  her  hover 
Pure  spirits,  'mid  air  while  the  wood-robin  sings. 


A      PICTURE.  151 

How   sweetly  she   sleeps  underneath  the  old  willow, 
Why  can't  you,  dear  boy,  let  your  sister  alone  ? 
Why    can't    you    but    leave    her    upon    her    sweet 

pillow  ? 

There,  there,  you  young  rogue,  now  the  mischief 
is   done. 


152 


A    WINTER'S    TALE. 


Hoary   winter   now   is   come, 
Hov'ring   round   our   cottage   home ; 
With   him   all  his   chilling  train, 
Snowy   flakes   and   icy   rain. 
Hear   him    whistle   as   he   goes, 
Naming  ev'ry   wind   that  blows ; 
Hear   him   rattling  at   the   door, 
See   him  creep   the   windows   o'er. 
How  he   shivers,   how   he   shakes, 
What   a   din  the   tyrant  makes ; 
Let  him  bluster,   we   don't   fear, 
Winter   cannot   enter   here  ; 
Out   of  doors   he   must  remain, 
All  his   efforts   are  in   vain. 
Now,   while   grand 'ma   trims   the   fire, 
Making   the   bright   flame  burn   higher ; 
Round   the   hearth   stone   we  will  gather, 
Heeding  not  the   wind   nor   weather. 
While   the   crackling  faggots   blaze, 
I   will   tell   of  bye   gone   days ; 
Come,   my   Edward,   come   to   me, 
Sit   upon   your  grandsire's  knee. 


A    WINTER'S     TALE.  153 

Mary,   take   your   little   chair, 

To    my    side,    and   sit   you   there. 

Now,    my   children,    I  will  tell, 
Of  a   day   remember'd   well ; 

How   the   wild   winds   did  complain, 

Like    a   demon    torn   with    pain, 

How   they   circled   as   they   flew, 

Ut'ring  notes   forever   new; 

Hills   and   dales   and   rocks   among, 

Their   unearthly   song   they   sung. 

Then   upon   the   passing  gale, 

Comes   a   sad   and   piercing  wail ; 

As   the   storm   fast   gather'd  round, 

Our   ears   caught  the   unwelcome  sound, 

That   a   suffering   vessel   lay, 

Near   the    shores    of  Plymouth   bay. 

But   so  rude   the   storm   did  rage, 

None    its   anger   could    engage ; 

None   could   lend   a    helping   hand, 

To    the   sufferers   off  the   land. 

None   the  fated   bark  could   reach, 

As   it  lay   far   off  the   beach. 

When  the  storm  was   hush'd   and   done, 

And   the   morning   light   came   on, 

There   the   fated   bark   was   seen, 

Torn   and   wreck'd   that  night   she'd  been. 

I   was   then   in   manhood's   prime, 

O'er   my  head   old   frosty   time 


154  A    WINTER'S    TALE. 

Had   not   held  his   wither'd   hand, 

With   his   wasted   glass   of  sand. 

I   was   one   that   first   did   dare, 

To   board   the   doom'd   bark   that   lay    there. 

Never,   never   will   the   sight 

Vanish   from   me   day   or  night. 

Seventy   souls    had    winter's  breath, 

Chill'd   to   sleep   the   sleep  of  death. 

Some   in   the   attitude   of  prayer, 

Bow'd   them   to   the   tyrant's   snare ;   • 

Some   were  standing   on   their   feet, 

Wrapp'd   in   winter's   winding   sheet ; 

Some   were   sitting  all  the   same, 

As   before   the   tyrant   came  ; 

Some    in   agony   and    fear, 

Froze    upon   their   cheek   the   tear. 

Oh,  my   children,    may   it   be, 

Ne'er   your   lot   such   sight   to   see. 

In   the   old   town   hall   next   day, 

Seventy   statue   forms   there   lay, 

Cold   and   hard   as   marble  wrought 

By   some   sculptor,   and   there   brought. 

Who  could   look   on   sight   like   this, 

And   not   feel   his   littleness, 

Feel   what   frail   and   feeble   worms 

We   are  all,   in    death's   chill   arms, 

When   he   o'er  us   holds   his   sway, 

Tearing   us   from   earth   away. 


A    WINTER'S    TALE.  155 

Even  him   who   came   to   read 
There   service   for   the   dead, 
Fainted,   as   burst   on   his   view, 
The   dread   sight   I   tell   to  you. 
Then   with   trembling  hands   we  made 
One  broad   grave,   and   they  were   laid 
On   their   mother   earth   to   sleep, 
Tho'   they   died   upon   the   deep. 
Children,   if  in   after  years, 
You  be   call'd  to   hear   with   tears, 
Of  that   day,   that   fatal   day, 
When   the    Gen'ral   Arnold   lay, 
Wreck'd   and  torn,   her  hapless   band, 
Crush'd  by   winter's  icy  hand ; 
When   this  tongue  no   longer   speaks, 
Of  past   scenes    that  mem'ry  wakes, 
Think   to   you   your   grandsire   told, 
Of  that   day   that   day   of  old. 
Sometimes    on   a   winter's   night, 
When   the   fire  burns   brisk   and  bright, 
When   you   feel   so   safe   and   warm, 
Think   of  the   dread  Magee   storm. 


156 


EVENING. 


The   moon  is  rising,   I   will  forth  alone, 

By   the   hill   side   my   evening  walk   I'll   take ; 
The   whip-poor-will  begins   his   solemn   tone, 

And  the  bright  moonbeams  dance  upon  the  lake. 
A  holy  calm   o'er   all  creation  steals, 

As   the   grey   twilight   throws   her   veil  around ; 
A   mystic  influence   to   the   soul   reveals, 

That  'tis  the  hour  when  prayer  doth  most  abound, 
That   many   a   one,   on   lowly   bended   knee, 
This    hour    pour    forth    their    souls,    great   God,   in 
praise   of  thee. 

The   voice   of  music   steals  upon   my  ear, 

From  yonder  lowly  roof  it   seems   to   come  ; 
It   is  a  hymn   of  praise,   methinks,   I   hear, 

It  rises   to   high  heaven  from   that  low   dome, 
For   there   is   truly   found   a  godly  band, 

Who   walk   in   love   their  daily  round  below, 
United   in   their   humble   sphere,   they   stand, 

Hoping  that   when   they   leave  this  world  of  woe, 
That   they   shall   meet   in   realms  beyond   the   skies, 
And  round  the   eternal   throne   their  songs   of   love 
shall  rise. 


EVENING.  157 

The  music  dies   away,  the  fervent  prayer 

Ascends   to  brighter,  happier   worlds   than   this; 
The   little   flock,   that  now  are   gather'd   there, 

The   great  Life   Giver   long  has  claim'd   as  his, 
For  they   have   trusted   him,   who   makes   to   blow 

The   winds   in   anger,   and   when   seems  him  best, 
Lulls   them   to  rest,   and  makes   the   waves   to   flow 

And   wildly  swell,   then  hushes   them   to  rest  5 
To   him  and  him   alone   they   bow   the  knee, 
To  him  who  rules  in  heaven,  in  air,  and  earth  and 
sea. 

A   humble   lot   is   their's,   who   there   reside, 

Beneath   yon   cot   with   woodbine   mantled  o'er ; 
But  sweet   contentment  o'er   it   doth   preside, 

They've  all  that  nature  craves,  they  ask  no  more. 
Few  are   their   wants,   their   cares   are   also   few ; 

How   few   that  reach   that   goal,   yet  all  do  strive, 
And   hope   to   gain   it,   for   the   valley   through 

Is   ever   open — yet   how   vain   we   live — 
But  put   our  trust   in   God,   and   on   him   rest, 
And,   like   those  blest  ones,   we    should    be    forever 
blest. 

Soft   strains  of  music  meet  my   ear   again, 
It   comes   from   yonder  mansion   on   the   hill ; 

That   throws   its   shadows   o'er  the   moonlit   plain, 
A   different   measure   and   a   different   trill ; 
14 


158  EVENING. 

'Tis  the  light  song  that  with  the  dance  goes  round ; 

The   morning   hours   will  find   them   on  the  floor; 
Contrast   it   with   the   scene  just   yonder   found, 

Where   balmy  sleep   her   poppies   light   doth  pour. 
Sweet   is   their   rest,   and   the  bright  morning   sun, 
Will  see  them  joyful  rise,  and  their  day's  task  begun. 

And   who   the   happiest,   who   the  happiest  man  ! 

The   son   of  pleasure,   is   he   happier   far 
Than   him,   the   son   of  labour  ? — if  you   can 

The   question   answer — whose   the  brightest  star  ? 
A   cheerful,   happy   look   in   one    is   seen, 

In  one   a  bloated   face   and   bloodshot   eye, 
That  plainly   tell   us   what   his   life   has   been. 

The   question's   answer'd,   and   the   reason   why, 
One   bows   to   pleasure,   one    to    God   alone, 
And  with  the  rising  sun  sends  praises  to  his  throne. 

With   the   gay  lark   high   soaring  o'er  his   head, 

Light   o'er  the   lawn  he  joyful  wends  his  way ; 
While   one  is   tossing   on   his   downy  bed, 

And   finds   no   rest,   tho'   breaks  the  blushing  day. 
All  night  his   hall   with   giddy   discord   rung, 

The   wine   cup   freely   took   its  course  around ; 
To-day   his   head  with  torturing  pain   is   hung, 

No   rest   for   the  sad   victim   now   is   found. 
If  this   is   pleasure,   let  her  gates  to   me 
Remain   forever   clos'd — forever   let  them   be. 


EVENING.  159 

Give    me  yon  humble   cot,  beside   the   grove, 

With   the   bright    streamlet   winding  by   the   door, 
Where   songs   of  praise  and  the  sweet  kiss  of  love 

At  eve   go   round  —  yes,   far,   oh   far   before, 
Yon  marble  dome,  that  frights  the  night  with  mirth, 

The   night   hours    destin'd   for  the   soul's   repose, 
When   nought  but  peaceful  dreams  should  e'er  have 
birth, 

Or   meditation   her   soft   lids  unclose. 
Calm   as   the  stream   that  murmurs   gently  by 
Their   door,   the   inmates   of  yon   cottage   lie. 


Who   can  but  see  in   every  herb   and  flower, 

The   hand   of  the   Omnipotent   divine, 
And  feel   the   existence  of  a  mighty  power, 

And   ponder   often   with   a   thoughtful   mind, 
On  those  bright  worlds,  deep  veil'd  from  human  sight, 

And   then   upon   our  lower  world  below, 
While   high   o'er  head   the   sober  queen  of  night, 

Looks   plaintive   down   and   calls   on   him   to  bow, 
And   let   his   spirit   take   its   unseen   wings, 
And   soar   away  where   the  cherub  choir  e'er  sings. 

The   seasons,   as   they   roll  their  round  along, 
Speak,  loudly   speak,   yes,   loudly   do   they   tell, 

The   goodness   of  that  Power   to   whom   belong 
The  earth,   air,   ocean   and   all  things  that  dwell 


160  EVENING. 


Within  their  bounds — where'er  we   turn  our  head, 
From  the  sea  depths  to  cloud  capt  mountains  high, 

We  see   his   outstretch'd   arm   in   goodness  spread, 
We   see   it  overshadowing   wide   the   sky ; 

We're   shadow'd  by  his   lore,  his   gttiding  power, 

He   claims   our  warmest   thanks,    each    season,  day, 
and   hour. 

The   boundless   ocean   as  it  heaves   and   falls, 

The   'bowering  wood,  the  flower  enamel'd  plain, 
The   tuneful  bird,  that   on   its   lov'd   mate   calls, 

Join   in   the   praise  of  their  Creator's  name. 
Yes,  one   and  all   their  Maker's   praise   proclaim, 

The     clouds     on    high     that    spread    their    wings 

abroad, 
Tell   of  his  glory  and  his   endless   fame, 

The   power,   the   mighty   power  of  him  the  Lord. 
This   night   they  seem   to  join,   all   nature   now   ap 
pears, 
To  join   in  one   accord   the  music  of  the   spheres. 


161 


TO    A    BUTTERFLY. 

Beautiful   insect,    from  whence   did   you  come  ? 
Did   you   come   from   the  fairy's   home  ? 
Did   you   ever   with   fairies   roam, 

Within  their   ruby  gem'd   halls  ? 
You   are   not   of  this   world   of  ours ; 
You   were   made   for   the   fairy  bowers, 
To   sip   the   sweets   of  immortal   flowers, 

That  bloom   where   dew   never   falls. 

Tarry   awhile,   and   do   not   fear; 
Rest   awhile    on   the   rose-tree   here ; 
Drink   of  the   morning's   last  bright   tear, 

That's   lingering   on   this   leaf; 
Or   rest  on   the   flower   I  have   in   my  hand, 
For   I   think  you'ree  queen   of  the   fairy   land ; 
The  tiny   tribe   is  at   your   command, 

And  your   time   on   earth   is   brief. 

I   once  reclin'd  where   the   branches   green 

In   all   their  fringy   array  are  seen  ; 

It  was   at  the   close   of  a   summer's   e'en ; 

The   sun   had  just   gone   to   rest ; 
Over   my  head   the   hasels   hung  ; 
The   eve-bird   sung  the   boughs   among ; 
Sweet  yet   mournfully   he   sung, 

And   smooth'd   his   downy  breast, 
14* 


162  TO     A     BUTTERFLY. 

And   oh !    what  a   sight  was  given   to  me  ! 
While   resting  beneath   the   hade  tree 
I   heard   a   sound   like   the   honey   bee, 

Quick   rustling   through   the  fern ; 
I   look'd,   too   bright   for  mortal   eye 
Was  the   sight  then   given  for   me   to  spy, 
And   never  again,   tho'   I   oft   there   lie, 

Did   the   fairy   vision   return. 

As   I   lay  reclin'd   on  my   fringy   bed, 
I  heard   the  night   dews   over  my  head 
Softly   fall   on   the   leaves   that   were   spread 

In   their  dark   green   hues   so  bright  ; 
And   I   heard  a   voice   amid  the   leaves, 
Soft   as   the  zephyr,   when  it  grieves. 
It   said   that   many   a  fair   hand   weaves 

A   crown   of  the   moon-beams  light. 

We   gather'd   them   up,   as   they   wildly   stray'd, 
And   among   the   feath'ry   fern   trees   play'd, 
And  many   a   matron  and   many   a   maid 

Has   woven   them   into   a   crown ; 
'Tis  meet  for  none  but  our  own  bright  queen ; 
'Tis   the  fairest  crown   that  ever  was   seen ; 
The   sun-eye   never  will   on   it  dare  beam, 

When  his   fiery  rays   dart   down. 


TO     A     BUTTERFLY.  163 

Then   one   like   you   was  seen  to   fly 

Lightly   down   from   the   moon-lit   sky ; 

It   sparkled  bright  in  the   pale   moon's   eye, 

And   I   heard   a  voice   thus   say, — 
"  Welcome   home   to   the   fairy   land, 
Favour'd   queen   of  our   own  bright  band, 
Once   more   reign   and   hold  command, 

And   roam   no  more   away. 

Welcome   home   our  own   fair   queen, 

The   flowers   are   bright,  the   groves  are   green, 

And   many   a  gem   lies   hid  between 

The   leaves  with  their   foliage   bright ; 
The   crown   is   ready,  we've  waited   long, 
Long  we've   waited   the   bowers   among ; 
Fairies   strike  up   the   coronal  song, 

And  bring   the  crown   of  light." 

At   first   I   saw  not   the  fairy   train, 

I    heard,   but   look'd   and   look'd   in   vain, 

And   silently    I    did   complain, 

When,   close   by   a  bracken   tall, 
A   beautiful   butterfly   came  down ; 
Its   wings   were   of  gold,   and  the   brightest  brown, 
And   it  rested  where   the   turf  was   mown, 

And  waited  the   coronal. 


164  TO     A     BUTTERFLY. 

Then  a  ring  was   form'd   by   the   loyal   band, 
And   round   the   beautiful   insect   stand, 
And   low   they  bow   at   her  command, 

And  pay   her   the   honors   due, 
And  place   the   crown   on   her   tiny   head, 
And   the   fairy   queen   is   gently   led 
Softly  by  my   fringy  bed, 

By   her   subjects   loyal   and   true. 

When,   oh !    a   strain   of  the   sweetest   sound 
Comes   from   the   dew-bespangled   ground, 
And   a   zephyr   wafts   it   far   around, 

Wherever   its   light   wings   spread. 
And   the   fringy   leaves   of  the   bracken   grove 
Seem   to   tremble   and   gently  move, 
As   over   the   turf  the  tiny   band   rove 

With   the   butterfly   queen   at   their  head. 

As   gently   round   the   soft   strains   flow 

They   moved,  but   their   steps  were  light  and   slow 

And   oftentimes   were   seen   to   bow, 

As  their   little   queen   on   them   smiled, 
When   all   at  once   from   the    velvet   green 
A   palace   rose   of  dazzling   sheen, 
And   its   gates   unbar'd   to   the   fairy   queen, 

Whom   earth   had   awhile   beguiled. 


165 


A    DREAM    OF    THE    SEA. 

Come   listen   awhile,   come   listen   to   me, 

And  I'll   tell   you   a  dream   I   once  had  on  the  sea  ; 

The   waves   they  were    hush'd,    were    as   smooth   to 

the  view, 

As   that   beautiful   mirror   wherein   now   are   you 
Eeflected    so    truly,    so   lovely   and    fair, 
With  art's   skilful   hand   aiding  nature  with   care. 
'Twas   beautiful   night,   as   we   lay  on   the    seas, 
How  joyful   we    then   would   have    hail'd    the    fresh 

breeze. 

Our   signal   flag  hung   from  the   tall   mast   on   high, 
And   waved  not   one   line   to   the  soft  moonlit   sky. 
It  was   in   the   Gulf  Stream   that  becalm'd  we  thus 

lay, 

And   nought  but  the  dolphin  was  seen  the  long  day. 
And   when   we   retir'd  we   of  dulness  complain'd, 
At   length   drowsy  Morpheus   his   empire   regain'd ; 
And   I   was   a   dweller   beneath   the   blue   waves, 
And   sung  with  the  sea-maid  within  her  own  caves ; 
And   had   for   a   chariot   a    sea  shell,   how   white, 
It  was   drawn   by   six  dolphins   with    golden    scales 

bright, 

And   sea-nymphs   in   waiting,   yes,  many   a  one, 
Whose  bright  eyes  had  never  once  look'd  on  the  sun, 


166  A      DREAM      OF      THE      SEA. 

How  sweetly  they  smil'd  and  how  sweetly  they  sung, 
As   they   twin'd   me   a    garland    with    purest    pearls 

hung, 
And   my   path   it    was    strew'd    with    the    rarest    of 

shells, 
I've  e'er  since  loved  the  home  where  the  sea-maiden 

dwells. 

As   in   triumph   I  rode — the  seals   of  the   deep 
Were   ope'd,   and   no   longer   their  secrets  did  keep ; 
How   the   grey   headed   miser   would   open  his  eyes, 
And  gaze  with   delight   until   lost   in   surprise  ; 
Could  he    look   on   the  riches  safe  anchor'd  below, 
Where    the    sailor   boy    sleeps,   and   the   coral   trees 

grow. 

I  saw   there   a   beauty   of  noble   degree, 
Who   had  just  come   to   sleep  in  the  deep  blue  sea, 
Her  pale   brow    was    wreath'd    with    diamonds    and 

pearls, 
And   the   sea   snake   entwin'd  with   her  dark   glossy 

curls  ; 

But   it   troubled   her   not,   she   was   ne'er  to  awake, 
Till    the    trumpet    is    blown,    earth's    foundations    to 

shake ; 

And   close  by  her   side  lay   a  once   haughty  king, 
But  what  could  his  lineage  and  honours  now  bring, 
He   slept   in  the   deep,   he   was   chain'd   in  a  trance, 
He   heeds   not    the    dolphins    as    around    him    they 

dance, 


A     DREAM     OF     THE     SEA.  167 

His   sceptre   is  there,   but  the   arm   of  a   slave, 
Has  encircled  it  round,  for  he  there  found  a  grave, 
When  he  came  with  his  master  his  freedom  to  find, 
Which  on  earth  was  denied  him,  but  here  was  defin'd. 
A  mother   was   there,   and   entwin'd  in   her   arms, 
Was   a   babe   that   had  not  lost  its  innocent  charms, 
Its   smile   was   as   sweet   as   it  was   on   the   day 
When   it   came  with  its  mother  on  sea  grass  to  lay. 
And   the   miser   was   there,  with  his  riches  untold, 
But  he   heeded  them   not  as  the  ocean  waves  roll'd, 
He   heeded   them  not  as  the  waves  swept  them  far, 
Tho'  they  once  were  his  idol,  his  god  and  his  star. 
The  waves  how  they  roll'd  and  they  thunder'd  along, 
And  kept  time  as  they  danc'd  to  the  sea-maid's  song. 
The    old    and   the   young   in   confusion   there    laid, 
On  their  hard  coral  beds  where  the  sea  weed  play'd. 
None   heeded   the    sea   song   but   moved   to   and    fro, 
As    the   rolling   billows    would   over   them   throw. 
In   my   scollop    shell   chariot  I   hurriedly   rode, 
Like   an   empress  in  state  through  my  wat'ry  abode. 
At   length   in   an   arbour    of  sea    shells   and    flowers, 
I     reclin'd,     while     around    me    the    pearls    fell    -in 

showers  ; 

How   brilliant   the   couch  upon   which   I   repos'd, 
At   length   I   awoke — and    before   me    unclos'd, 
A   broad   arch   above,   while  the  sea-maidens  sweet, 
Sung   a     song   of  high  triumph   within  rny   retreat ; 


168  A     DREAM     OF     THE     SEA. 

And  long  after   linger'd  so   wild   and   so   clear, 
The   sweetest   of  echoes   that  ever  met   ear ; 
And   'tis  answer'd   afar   as   tho'    sung   in   a  grove, 
As  nearer  and   nearer   a   train   seem   to  move ; 
They   are  heard  on   the  sea  shells  and  quickly  they 

haste 

To   my  gem   studded   bower   in  the  watery  waste ; 
And   soon   on   my   vision   the  light   train   appear, 
Each   leaving  a  garland   of  pearly  shells  clear, 
Intermix'd  with  bright  flowers  from  their  own  wat'ry 

bed, 

And   pearls   far   the   fairest   that  ever  were  spread, 
On   the   brow   of   a   queen   whose    power  was   com 
plete, 
And   the   garlands    were   brought    and   were   laid   at 

my   feet. 

And   after   them    canie    by   the   wild  waves  propell'd, 
A  form   far   the  fairest   that  eye   e'e  •  beheld  ; 
She   wore   on   her   head   a   crown,  'twas   of  flame, 
And   the   music   grew  wilder  as  onward  she  came. 
No   sapphire   was   there,   nor  no   diamond  was  seen, 
Nor   emerald,  stealing   from   ocean   its   green  ; 
'Twas    of   red    fiery    flame,    and    its    radiance    was 

spread, 
Like  the   rays   of   the    sun,    round    the    sea    fairy's 

head ; 

And   as   she   advanced   the   sea   maidens   bent  low, 
And  rev'rence   they   paid  as   they   lowly  did  bow. 


A      DREAM      OF     THE      SEA.  169 

She   soon   pass'd   them   by   and   came   where   I   lay, 
On  my   couch   made   of  brilliants  too  bright  for  the 

day  ; 
And    the    crown    it    was    raised    by  a  power    none 

could   see, 

And   it   hiss'd   like   red  coals  as  it  came  toward  me. 
The  music    swell'd   louder   and  wilder   the   song, 
And   louder   the   ocean  waves   thunder'd  along ; 
And  then  the  fire  crown  it  was  hung  o'er  my  brow, 
I   felt   the   fierce   flame   as   around  it   did   glow; 
My  brain   it   grew   dizzy.     No   more  can   be   told, 
But   in   terror   I  woke   and   the   ocean   waves   roll'd. 
I   found   that   the  fairest  and  liveliest   gales, 
Were    playing   and    singing  among   the  white  sails ; 
And    we    were    fast    nearing    the    long    wish'd    for 

shore, 
And   my   dream   of    the  crown  and    its    terrors   was 

o'er. 


15 


170 


OUR  VILLAGE  FEAST  OF  SHELLS. 

THE  FOLLOWING  LINES  WERE  WRITTEN,    AND    SUNG    AT   A 

VILLAGE    "  FEAST    OF    SHELLS,"    HELD    at    "  WOODS 

GROVE,"  FAIRHAVEN,  SEPT.  3,  1838. 


Let   others   sing   the   rosy  god 

Beneath   the   purple   vine, 
And   bow   them    to    the    tyrant's    nod, 

And   pour    the    sparkling   wine  : 
Another   theme   the   Muse   for   me 

Has    chosen    from   her   wells — 
'Tis    this — beneath    the    green-wood    tree 

To   sing   the   "  Feast   of  Shells." 

When   Ossian   struck   his   lyre   among 

The    Caledonian    hills, 
And   charm'd   the   echo's   as  they  sung 

Beside   the   mountain   rills, 
He   tun'd   his   harp  they   say    of  old — 

His   fame   the   story   tells — 
And   sung   in   strains   both   soft   and   bold 

The   ancient   "  Feast   of  Shells." 


OUR    VILLAGE    FEAST    OF    SHELLS.      171 

Here   oft   the   dusky   forest   maid, 

And   hunter   of  the   wood, 
Beneath    the    oaks   have    careless   stray'd, 

Or   musing  here    have    stood. 
And   many   a    distant    warrior   band 

Has    left   its   crags   and   fells, 
Upon    Accushnet's   banks    to   stand, 

And   grace   the   "  Feast   of  Shells." 

But  now   no   more   their   songs   are  heard 

To    break   the   stilly  night ; 
No   more   the   thicket   leaves  are   stirred 

By   scalping   knife    so   bright ; 
No   more   wild   echoing   through   the  air 

Are   heard   their   savage    yells, 
And   cause   the   pallid   maiden    fair 

To   leave   the   "  Feast   of  Shells." 

Now    fearlessly    we've    gather'd   here, 

Those    days   of  blood   are   o'er, 
Not   even   the   nimble   footed   deer 

Is   seen   upon   our   shore. 
No   gloomy   sprite   shall   frighten   us, 

Nor   Folly   with  her  bells, 
Of  Reasons   crown   shall   lighten   us — 

She    rules    our   "  Feast   of   Shells." 


172       OUR    VILLAGE    FEAST    OF    SHELLS. 

And   as    we   sing   the   groves   shall   ring, 

So   merrily   this    day, 
For   none   but   happy   hearts   we   bring 

Beneath   the   green-wood   gay ; 
The   old   and   young   together  join, 

For   here   a   spirit  dwells 
That  brightens  with   its  smiles  divine 

Our  Village   "Feast  of  Shells." 


r-  ., 


9 


^^;V~«HW 


« 

b  «*• 


. 

•*;• 


%'lf     .,*-.  ^ 
*•*»  -.,-  •  t, 


L'  . 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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